


Anew

by RoswellSmokingWoman



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, As happy an ending as Hannigram can have, BDSM, Betrayal, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom!Hannibal, Bottom!Will, Brain Damage, Brainwashing, Branding, Cannibalism, Character Death, Conditioning, Dark Will Graham, Dom/sub, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Horror, Jealousy, Love Letters, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Non-romantic Bedelia and Hannibal, Non-romantic Clarice and Hannibal, Obsession, On the Run, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Rimming, Smut, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Switching, Teasing, Top!Will, Violence, Wendigo, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, top!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 73,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman
Summary: Post-fall Will and Hannibal escape to Canada. They can't ignore their feelings for each other, but the past is a cruel ghost that nips at their brains. Will Hannibal's darkest side take over and jeopardize the budding relationship between the two men?In Baltimore, Bedelia and Jack are unable to lay their memories to rest. Will they risk their lives in order to catch the men that could eat the world whole? When Clarice Starling enters the picture at Jack's request, she must go hunt down Hannibal and Will. But all things aren't as they seem. Will Clarice's involvement backfire on Jack?And perhaps, Hannibal will have everything in the end--after all.*Basically, my take on what would happen in season 4 and beyond of Hannibal the TV show with some inspiration from the book series and films.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Billie Eilish-My Strange Addiction

Chapter 1

Will looks to Hannibal, breathing in the salty scent of the air. “ _How did it get to this?_ ” Will asks himself briefly, his heart pounding in his chest as he realizes the extent of damage that Hannibal and his own bodies have endured. His mind is spinning. Flashes of the cliffside house. The adrenaline of slaying ‘The Red Dragon’ together. The freedom from Jack Crawford. The memories still tantalize him. Hannibal stares into his eyes knowingly, a smirk gracing his thin lips. 

“Not changing your mind now, dear Will?” Hannibal breathes. Hannibal fixes his sand color hair with his bloodstained hand.

“It would be too late for that.” Will spits back.

Perhaps long ago, before the cliff and before the betrayals, Hannibal would have found this tone of voice rude. He would have killed Will and feasted on his tongue, a nice Tongue Burgundy perhaps, paired with a dry red wine. But now he couldn’t dream of eating Will, not physically. He wanted to consume him differently, and he hoped Will wanted to consume him too. His heart swelled at the thought—but it was the wrong time to sink into fantasies now. Hannibal knows that their safety and freedom are their priorities.

Will stares out at the vast sea, watching blood from Hannibal’s bullet wound drip down to his feet and slowly trickle into the bubbling shallow waters. The water is pink tinged with red; Hannibal’s lost too much blood, but he doesn’t seem weak. “I can’t take you to a hospital,” Will says quietly, fear coating his voice.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been injured like this; there is no need to fret.” Hannibal’s fingers brush against Will’s hand. “We need to walk a few miles down the shore along the cliffside. There should be a boat there; one that I’ve stowed away for occasions such as these—”

“You make it sound like you’ve planned an activity for a rainy day,” Will cuts him off. _“Can he even walk a few miles?”_ Will’s own injuries are severe. _“We don’t have a choice.”_

“One should always be prepared,” Hannibal counters. With this, Hannibal takes Will’s hand fully, boldly into his own. _“This could be quite romantic,”_ Hannibal sighs internally. He’s grateful that Will hadn’t pulled his hand away.

There’s a sensitivity to Hannibal that Will hadn’t quite seen before, on the day that Hannibal had turned himself in, and the day where Hannibal stroked Will’s cheek as he stabbed him. Their relationship was a slow, deadly dance. Hannibal’s eyes are like rivers that pour out feelings, and while Will can’t read every thought that Hannibal has, he knows that it would deeply injure the man’s feelings to pull his hand away. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t tell Hannibal that he feels like they won’t make it walking. He simply lets Hannibal do as Hannibal wants. And so they walk on, salt water kicking at their feet.

****

Will is supporting Hannibal as they walk; he didn’t want to say he was right—but he was right. “How much farther?” Will asks the man, hoping for a response.

“Just a few more yards, and you will see a small gap in the cliffside.” Hannibal enjoys this, though he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. He didn’t need Will’s help, but the result of his feigned weakness was satisfying and comforting.

The boat is just where Hannibal had left it, covered in seaweed, but nonetheless in perfect condition. Will lets Hannibal sit down against the rocks so he could tug the boat from the rocks. The scraping sound muddles Will’s thoughts, and he’s thankful for the thoughts to be drowned out. Then he notices the rolling sound, and Will peers in, pulling out a bottle of wine. “I won’t be so naïve as to assume that there isn’t a bottle opener in here as well.” Stuck in the bow, the bottle opener greets Will.

“I cannot do without the finer things in life,” Hannibal chides. “And the wine is a much better alternative to sea water, in any case.” It is a Château Ste. Michelle 2003—a very good year for this wine. Hannibal hadn’t tasted it for years, and his tongue is salivating at the memory of its decadence.

There are two large jugs of water further in the crack of the cliff, and Will puts these in the boat as well. “We may have to do without those for a while.”

“All the more reason to have kept the wine with the boat,” he teases. Hannibal stands and helps Will push the boat into the water, and Will realizes that Hannibal had not needed his assistance after all. Hannibal smiles at Will.

“You smug bastard.”

“Language, Will—language.”

They go out to sea, sipping their wine from the bottle. They recount stories of their sessions, finding it too difficult to let go of the past. After a while, Will drifts into sleep and Hannibal daringly strokes a few of Will’s fine brown curls. He looks like a Greek statue, a modern Adonis. Hannibal feels himself to be a lucky man, having finally been able to hold Will in his arms. “You won’t ever leave me,” Hannibal whispers quietly knowing Will won’t hear. Will had no choice to leave now, not really. Hannibal would sooner kill them both—murder suicide, the most perfect crime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cigarettes After Sex--Affection

Chapter 2

Will wakes to the sound of water. The room is fuzzy for a moment before his vision focuses. He smells Hannibal in the room with him, and then feels Hannibal’s strong arms pick him up. “Huh, Hannibal?” Will chokes out.

“You became sick on the boat. Don’t try to overexert yourself,” Hannibal says softly.

Will looks down, and notices that he is only in his boxers. His vision blurs again for a moment before he looks up, seeing the shower in front of him. “Where are we?”

“The bathroom.” Hannibal enjoys this; stating the obvious and playing dumb. He likes the way it makes Will's eyebrows furrow and his lips press together. 

“Yes, but where?” Annoyance coats Will’s voice.

“A small cabin in Nova Scotia. We may relocate soon, depending on how safe I feel it is.” Hannibal places Will in the bath that he had made for him. “You will feel better after the bath.” He tries not to look at Will, but he cannot remove his eyes from the sight of him. The man’s finely chiseled torso, sparse hair atop his chest. Will is irresistible. A finer sight then even the most extravagant of Hannibal’s own culinary creations. “I will give you some privacy, for the bath.”

“Oh—right.” Will sputters. He’s staring into Hannibal’s deep brown-black eyes. _“What is he thinking?”_ He takes in the pink of Hannibal’s cheeks, his lips slightly parted. Will realizes that perhaps it’s the fact that he’s in only his boxers. “Thank you,” he decides to say. Not, _“You like what you see, eh?”_ or, _“A bath together might be nice.”_

Will finds these thoughts of his almost startling. He knows that he has feelings for Hannibal, loves the dark and complicated man standing before him even. And yet, this attraction, this sexual attraction is unexpected, perhaps? _“I’ve never thought of a man this way, before.”_ Will thinks. He watches Hannibal walk away. _“But he’s not a man. He’s something more. A demon. The devil.”_ And why would Will not find the devil attractive, when Lucifer himself was a beautiful angel? And then, Will settles on it, satisfied— _“Hannibal is a dark angel, bringer of death, a morbid justice.”_ Fitting, no?

****

The woods are thick around their cabin. Hannibal takes in the scent of pine and wet earth beneath his feet. He knows that it is too soon to kill, and moreover, that it would be tricky to find someone here who would easy to kill. It is a tight knit community. Yet, he feels his skin tingle at the thought—a freshly slaughtered pig for his lips to touch once more. He mustn’t get too lost in these fantasies though, for now at least. When Will comes out of it, Hannibal knows, the real challenge would only begin. The game was never about changing Will, and it wasn’t about influencing his transformation—the game was always about securing Will as his, forever. Contradictory to his manner, Hannibal lets out the softest, “Fuck.” It was not rude to swear if no one could hear him.

Hannibal goes behind the cabin where he parked the stolen car, an old yellow Volkswagen Beetle. He’s lost in his thoughts as he drives, remembering the voyage to Nova Scotia.

_Will is on the bottom of the boat, muttering to himself. He isn’t well, and perhaps he’s lost too much blood. Hannibal knows his injuries are much worse, but he has become accustomed to more severe injuries over time. He knows that he will live, and this thought alone provides him with the energy to continue rowing._

_“Hannibal,” Will says, sitting up. It’s as if Will is awake, but he’s not. His eyes are open but Will isn’t conscious. The smallest and softest part of Will, deeply buried now, seems to speak. “How could you do this?”_

_Hannibal doesn’t answer—he can’t. His want for Will is selfish. He defiled Will’s empathy, entangling Will into his own mind. But that’s what Hannibal wants. He wants a partner, someone who truly could understand him. Will did. Only Will ever could. Thus, Will became his._

_And then, another part of Will speaks. The darker one, more prominent now than ever before. “We’re perfect together.” And then Will drops to his back again, muttering nonsense to the floor of the boat. The only words Hannibal can make out are, “You love me.” Will had answered his own question. Everything Hannibal had done was because he loves Will. That's why he turned himself into Jack, staring at Will the whole time. Hannibal still remembers the breaking of heart in those moments; reminded the he still has one because the weight of it was too much to bear. The one emotion Hannibal had forgotten he posses: Love. Will is his heart, broken, blackened, but beating. It was simple. Dangerous and reckless, but simple._

_And then Hannibal speaks, rowing more vigorously than before. “I do.” He hopes Will can hear him, though he knows he doesn’t._

Hannibal’s attention snaps back to the general store in front of him. He puts on the herringbone cap and a pair of glasses he found. He hopes that he is more unrecognizable with the scruff on his face, as well. Someone normal would feel their heart pounding in their chest, but not Hannibal. He isn’t afraid. If something were to go wrong, he’d simply make the store owner into dinner. He is here for dinner supplies, anyhow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rag 'n Bone Man--Skin

Chapter Three

Hannibal had refrained from killing the store owner. She was a short, stout woman with a face that mildly resembled a bulldog. She was as gruff and rude like a Bulldog too, which made it all the more tempting. And while Hannibal knew that the he perhaps didn’t smell the best, having abandoned his cologne and favorite shower gel years ago—she still had no reason to mention it and shove a bar of Irish Spring in front of him. The gall she had! Irish Spring most certainly smelled much worse than Hannibal. Even though he had been rowing for two days in the same clothes and hadn’t managed to find time shower yet. Understandably, with the lack of sleep, Hannibal was more than tempted to make her his victim.

Then he thought of Will, still weak in the cabin, and chided himself for his impulsive desire. _“In a week or two, perhaps, I’ll come back for her. I’ll make her liver into a foie gras.”_ He salivates at the thought, already contemplating wine pairings.

With some frozen ground beef— _it would have to do—_ crushed tomato, dry spaghetti, and seasoning mix he found in hand; Hannibal enters the cabin. He’s tackled to the ground immediately, hands around his neck. He takes the can of tomatoes to strike his assailant in the head before he notices the smell of his sweat, the characteristic musk of Will that he’s come to adore. He chokes out the man’s name, first. He should check if this is an accident before acting, he tells himself. He wouldn't mind wrestling Will, either way. He would relish in the physicality.

Will stops for a moment, breathing heavily. “We should come up with a knock or something. Otherwise, I may attack you with a knife the next time.”

_“Foreplay,”_ Hannibal jokes to himself. “That may be in order.”

Neither man leaves the floor. Instead, they stare into each other’s eyes. Will contemplates the right course of action; he doesn’t care that Hannibal smells of sea air and sweat, or that the glasses he is wearing aren’t flattering to the contour of his face. He finds himself lost in the man’s lips, wondering if they are soft as they look. His cock twitches in anticipation. Some animal urge within him commands his brain to keep holding onto Hannibal. His hand strokes Hannibal’s muscular arm.

For the first time, Hannibal is at a loss for words. He stares into Will’s ocean blue eyes and feels the soul of him wrap around his heart and squeeze. It almost hurts, but it’s a beautiful pain. Hannibal cannot hide his arousal and ever so slightly rubs it against Will’s thigh. He wants him to know, timing be damned. They should rest, refrain from physical activities. But in this moment, his body is stronger than ever before.

“You’ve got an awfully kissable mouth,” Will says, channeling F. Scott Fitzgerald’s perfect words, since Will couldn’t think of his own in that moment.

Hannibal wastes no second, smashing his lips against Will’s own. He rips the man’s button-down flannel shirt open, buttons popping off in every direction. “I’ll find you a new one,” he mutters.

Will rolls Hannibal over, so that he’s on top of him. He pulls away, his palm caressing the other man’s cheek. He needs this tenderness, even if it were only to last a second. He chokes Hannibal lightly, teasingly. “You’re beautiful under me,” Will growls.

They don’t move to the bedroom, because it has no significance. Their pure need for each other surpasses any romantic convention. Instead, they make love to each other wildly, passionately. Their clothes are lost in the room around them, but they don’t think of them. Hannibal bites at Will’s back, making bruises as if to claim him with the imprint of his teeth. “I’ve waited three years for you, darling,” Hannibal mutters into Will’s skin. “If nothing else, I will let the world know you're mine.”

Will moans at his words, precum seeping from his engorged shaft. “Then claim me. I can’t wait for you.”

They have no lube, but they don’t care. Hannibal enters Will, and he is immediately transported into another realm; a tear rolls down his cheek as he rocks into Will. Will is almost delirious from the pleasure of it, from the fullness Hannibal inserted into him.

“The sounds you make are more beautiful than any opera I’ve attended,” Hannibal utters, on the brink of orgasm. “I would be inside of you forever.” Hannibal strokes Will’s cock as he moves, dragging his thumb across the back of it and then massages his balls.

Will cannot take it, and he pushes Hannibal off him, turning him over to see his bare ass, perfectly sculpted and inviting. “I need to have you too.” Will pushes into him, and their bodies crash together like waves on a cliffside in the middle of a raging storm. Will bites hard into his own wrist, drawing blood. Biting into Hannibal’s shoulder Will tastes Hannibal’s blood as he gives Hannibal his own wrist. They come together as one, and lay limp on the floor panting.

Hannibal strokes Will’s hair, looking at the ceiling. “You taste the way ambrosia of the gods would taste,” he whispers. Only then is Hannibal truly victim to Will, vulnerable to his every action.

And Will, who’s mind is still spinning, unable to comprehend the events of mere moments ago, sputters out without thinking, “I hate that I love you, and I love that I hate you.” He cannot live without Hannibal; it was more apparent than ever before.

His words dance on the tightrope string of Hannibal’s heart. “I only love you,” Hannibal replies, stung by Will’s words but hopeful that one day Will would love him fully without the hatred. But Will was not naïve, and immediately questioned those words— _“How long can this last?”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snowmine-Let Me In
> 
> I hope you enjoy the songs I'm putting for each chapter :)

Chapter 4

The air is still around him, but Will’s thoughts are buzzing inside of his head—too many to take in all at once. Hannibal’s head is on his chest, the serial killer half asleep. _Bliss_ —that should be the word to use now, newly coupled. Oxytocin muddles his thoughts, and he should be a love-sick fool now. He knows this all too well. Instead, he is apprehensive, his fingers numb with anxiety. _“Is it my own, or is it Hannibal’s?”_ Will asks himself, unable to distinguish his emotions from Hannibal’s. The line between the two men had been blurred into nonexistence. Will is sucked into Hannibal’s psyche, the other man’s feelings disrupting Will’s own. _“Why would Hannibal be anxious?”_

Then, Hannibal moves in bed, almost as if he’s reading Will’s thoughts. “How are we feeling, dear Will?” Hannibal asks. There is nothing in his voice that would suggest that Hannibal is worried, and yet, Will knows hidden beneath the mask is some kind of fear.

_“Fear of what?”_ Will sighs, “You’re Virgil, and I am Dante.”

“Guiding you through Hell. Why is this Hell, Will?”

“What else could it be?” Will pauses. “This is the seventh ring.”

“Violence.” There is a hitch in Hannibal’s breath. “Are you having any doubts?”

“I wonder how far we will go—to protect ourselves, or maybe, to satisfy our needs.”

“Do you want me to stop killing?” Hannibal asks, contemplating whether the next words should be: _“I would stop, for you,”_ or perhaps, _“There’s no need to stop.”_ Both are true in some way and false in others. The fullest truth would be that Hannibal could stop, for a time. Until one day the itch returns and his tongue yearns for the satisfaction of human flesh.

“You would never stop,” Will groans, closing his eyes.

Hannibal comes on top of him then, and wraps his hands around Will’s neck. “Or perhaps you’re afraid that I will be killing you, eventually? Have you thought about how I would savor every morsel of your flesh?” He nibbles on Will’s earlobe. “I already know that you taste delicious. Are you afraid that I won’t be able to stop myself. Perhaps I’ll eat you raw first as beef carpaccio.”

Will is afraid and aroused, unsure how Hannibal will proceed. He chokes out, “I’m disappointed you wouldn’t opt for something more exotic—like the Japanese Basashi.”

“I would not eat you whole, immediately. I would enjoy you for as long as I could.” Hannibal presses a light kiss to Will’s lips.

“Would you share me?” There’s a fire in Will’s eyes, now sure that this darkness was carnal, not murderous. “Would you watch your dinner guests consume me, with the same fervor in your eyes as you watched me eat your previous victims?”

“I could never share you.” Hannibal crushes his mouth onto Will’s and mutters, “Mine.” He bites Will’s lips, causing Will to open his mouth so that Hannibal could let his tongue slip in. “Delectable,” he breathes.

****

Will is in the kitchen. They’ve been in Nova Scotia for over two weeks now, their injuries having healed quite a bit since their arrival. He stares out of the window above the sink, thinking of his dogs left in Wolf Trap. He misses Winston then, feeling the pang of regret mock his heart. _“But you couldn’t live without Hannibal,”_ Will reminds himself.

Will feels a pair of arms wrap around him. “We must leave soon,” Hannibal says flatly. “We’ve been here too long.”

“And go where?” Would they keep traveling every few weeks, on the constant run from the FBI?

“Our beloved Jack won’t be able to sit long in his office.” Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s shoulder. There’s the tenderness again that Hannibal lets slip out every once in a while, but it’s a tainted tenderness. His words don’t seem to match.

“Should we kill him?” This is a test for Hannibal. Will always wondered the extent of his impulsiveness.

“Not unless he is in front of us,” Hannibal doesn’t take the bait. “Even then, perhaps I would spare him for you.”

“I don’t owe anything to Jack.” Will didn’t. Jack had never cared for Will’s well-being. Will's transformation was not fully Hannibal’s doing. If Jack hadn’t pushed him, Will would never have gone over the edge. Jack’s first mistake was trusting Hannibal Lecter; his second mistake was assuming that Will wouldn’t enjoy what lay on the other side of the cliff

“You have a soft spot for our old friend.” Hannibal looks out at the window, noticing the trees outside and the isolation their cabin has allowed them. “Being here must remind you of Wolf Trap, in a way. Do you miss it?”

“I would be lying if I said no—I miss the life before you and Jack, the life where I was a different person.” Will pulls away from Hannibal in order to make coffee.

“Do you truly feel like a different person? Are you not the culmination of all the events of your past and present life?” Hannibal misses the therapy sessions, crawling into Will’s mind. Perhaps if Hannibal could read minds, Will would have been less tempting. In his heart, Hannibal knows that this is not true, but he entertains the thought anyway.

“The Will then would never have dreamed of doing what I have done,” Will pauses, smelling the coffee brewing in the coffee pot.

“Perhaps the past Will lacked the vision I have for you. You are capable of great things, Will.”

Will knows this all too well. There’s an itch in the back of his neck, telling him to kill again soon. He ignores it, as best he can. Will won’t tell Hannibal of the reflection of the stag he sees on the surface of the coffee brewing, nor of the scent of blood that has seemed to be on Will’s nose the past few days. “Yes, as Hannibal Lecter’s lover and murder partner.” Will laughs.

****

It seems to come out of nowhere, as they’re packing the car with the few belongings they could take from the cabin. Hannibal moves stiffly, his eyes looking down at the ground. Will watches him only, never saying a word. Will is curious as to why he's seeing Hannibal uncomposed. What could have caused this? Will always knew that Hannibal’s wild emotions tormented him; he is erratic, impulsive, vengeful. But the person-suit that Hannibal wore concealed these thoughts, giving him an air of composure that is inhuman.

Hannibal looks to Will, aware that he had been watched the whole time. “I’ll have to go buy a few things at the store and return.”

Will doesn’t question this, though he should.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two Feet--I Feel Like I'm Drowning

Chapter 5

It’s as if everything in front of Will’s eyes is tinged with red; like he’s viewing the world through crimson tinted glass. There’s a change in the air, some force makes it bitter and cold. Will feels ravenous and unhinged. It’s as if he’s been a starving man caged now let free. His fingers twitch. He’s drowning in the bloodlust. 

The clock strikes in front eyes: one, two, three times.

_I’m in front the store. I’ve been here several times before, fake grin plastered on my face as part of my person suit that I’m wearing. I’m disgusted, my insides boiling. I don’t want to be here, but I do. The prize inside is too good to resist._

_It’s as if I’m at a farmer’s fair, the prized pig standing before me. She’s stout, ugly, and rude. “My my, I’ve been waiting for you.”_

_The kill is done to a rhythm, an angry rondo. “We mustn’t insult new customers. That’s bad for business,” I scold. “That’s why I’ll be eating you Marjorie.” I hum as I do it, gleefully slitting her throat. She deserves it, and I relish in the tears dripping down her cheeks. I lick one off of her; its holy water to the disturbed._

_No one would come for days, with the “Store Closed” sign at the door. No one would question this either, because it’s a small town whose people mind their own business._

_I have this flawless illustration in my head of how I would arrange her, her head decapitated, mouth open. Her buttocks would be above it, hands spreading the cheeks apart. She would eat her own shit, postmortem. You would understand, only you. We see the same vision. My perfect dark angel. It feels good to kill. I wish you were here. My heart aches for you._

_That is my design. Uncompleted, stowed away. I could not show others my artistry._

_The stag leads Will away from the woman, into a room with silver trays stacked with bloody organs. He sees Hannibal on the other side, dressed in a fine burgundy three-piece suit. His eyes are filled with a kind of dangerous lust that sends chills down Will’s spine._

_“For you, my love,” Hannibal utters._

_Will blinks. Once. Twice._

_The black wendigo stands in front of him, his hands spread to the feast._

_Will blinks again._

_Hannibal holds a heart out to Will. Will takes the first bite, closing his eyes at the metallic twang of the blood. It runs down his chin._

_Hannibal bites next and buts the remainder on the tray._

_They’re naked now, Hannibal’s engorged cock staring at Will. He pushes Will down onto the black marble floor, ass facing Hannibal. Hannibal’s tongue strokes Will’s asshole, and Will moans in the pleasure. He could come from the feeling._

_“So eager for me, my love.”_

_Will opens his eyes; Hannibal and he lay on a pile of human carcasses. Hannibal devours Will’s lips. “This is what we always dreamed of, Will.”_

_“Who will we kill next?” Will asks, moving down to Hannibal’s cock. He draws a line with his tongue against the back of it, watching Hannibal tip his head back in ecstasy. “I’d murder world for you and serve them all on gold platters at the finest ebony dining table.” Will sucks Hannibal off and drinks his cum, gulping it down as if it’s the elixir of life._

He’s back in the car, Hannibal is quiet next to him.

“You loved every second of killing her,” Will finally manages to speak. His mind is still spinning from the arousal.

“I needed to do it; she simply could not continue to waste space on this earth.” Hannibal tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“What if the FBI catches on to our location?”

“We are moving, Will.” Hannibal’s eyes don’t leave the road. “Do you wish I took you with me to murder her?” He’s smiling.

“No. It was reckless. We should lay low.”

“I haven’t killed in many years, not counting The Red Dragon. I’ve been a good boy, so to speak. Let me have my fun.” Hannibal is amused; he wasn’t disappointed in Will’s reaction. He was entertained being right, knowing how Will would act after learning of his latest kill. “You’re aroused.” Will’s breath hitches as Hannibal’s hand creeps over to the fly of his pants. He lets out a small moan. “My wanton slut. Let me watch you please yourself.”

Will takes his swollen dick out of his pants, precum dripping from its tip and jerk himself off. He does it slowly, so Hannibal can enjoy the sight. “What if we get caught?” he chokes out.

“You love the thrill.” Hannibal pulls over to the side of the road.

“You love it too. This tango with Jack. He will come looking.”

“We’ll feast on him together, love.” He puts his mouth on Will’s cock, his skilled tongue teasing the tip. “I’ll feed him to you bite by bite in the bedroom,” he mutters. Will comes then, into Hannibal’s mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, I think this is my best chapter yet. I haven't written anything in many years so I feel like the beginning was very bumpy. I think I'm getting back into the swing of things. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Song: Gnash--I Hate You I Love You

Chapter 6

Bedelia is alone in her home, sitting in her white chair, rosé in hand. Jack sits across her, hair grayer now. He’s grayed considerably in the past few years; the stress of knowing someone so close to him is so evil. She sees the constant regret on his face.

“Thinking of Will, Jack?” She’s unusually at ease—she would never be caught for any assistance she had provided Hannibal nor Will. She was a psychologist, then kidnapped, and then a psychologist again. She is innocent, in the eyes of the FBI. No psychologist would ever be punished for their influence on their patients.

“It’s why I’m here,” he reminds her. He’s on his second glass of rosé, and these are the first words he’s said for her not having to do with the wine.

“Will is dead, Jack. Hannibal, most likely too.”

“You know that I can’t believe that.”

“Will pushed Hannibal and himself off the cliff. We saw the footage from the camera that Dolarhyde had placed outside of the home. What makes you believe the would have survived the fall?” Bedelia also preferred to think of Hannibal as deceased, so that he could be shoved into the memory box and locked away inside her brain.

“They never found the bodies.”

“There was a storm the next day. Who knows where the bodies could have washed up, Jack?” She’s annoyed but doesn’t let this show in her voice. Jack was delaying her healing process. If only she could shake the memory of him away.

“You offered your therapy services to Will—no?” A smirk plays on Jack’s lips.

“Patient confidentiality.”

“He was never officially you’re patient. You offered him the same services Hannibal had—a friend, more or less, to talk to.” Jack downs the rest of his wine, not really caring for the taste. He drank more now than before, needing to take the edge off. “What did you talk about?”

“At first, it was Will’s tormented mind. The visions he had of Abigail while hunting down Hannibal,” she pauses for a moment, “Then, years later when he couldn’t let himself forget, we spoke about Hannibal.” There’s a tear that falls from her eye, rolling down her cheek and dripping into her wine glass. The top of her nose is red. She shouldn’t let herself succumb to the memories so easily. Their shared kiss. The torment. She shouldn’t have fallen prey so easily. “I must apologize, I’ve drank too much.” She knew she would have to tell Jack what he wanted, so he would leave her alone. She wouldn’t tell him everything. Just enough to put the blame on Will Graham.

Jack clears his throat. “Did you bring Hannibal up, or Will?”

“It was Will, after he went to see Hannibal at the Baltimore State Mental Hospital,” she pauses. “Once he asked if Hannibal was in love with him.” She’s no longer looking at Jack but eyeing the beige and white room around her. She twirls a stray blonde curl, thinking back to Florence, Hannibal next to her as she sits in the bath. Her heart pounds. The smell of his cologne, something she can’t quite name, a mixture of tobacco and something warm, almost sweet but not quite. She sees the grace of his thin fingered hands, tapping the edge of the tub lightly. She almost misses it.

Jack’s eyes almost jump from their sockets at the realization—the dark dance between Will and Hannibal. How had he not seen it before? “How long has he been in love with Will?” Jack finally asks, wondering if any profiler would have seen Hannibal Lecter and deduced that he would have a penchant for men, too.

“Perhaps from the moment they meet… Hannibal saw Will and immediately felt a kind of fulfillment, as if he was nourished by the sight of Will.” Her hands are shaking, and she hates the words coming from her mouth. “He loved him the only way he could, possessively. He just couldn’t help himself, Will was a temptation he never felt before. As for Will, the realization came slowly. Not that Hannibal is in love with him. No. He was certain even before Hannibal fled to Florence; he just couldn’t believe it then. No. It took Will three years of pretending to love Molly until he realized that the only name etched crudely into his heart is Hannibal Lecter.” She’s tempted to take out a cigarette from its back on the table in front of her.

“Do you truly believe that they’re dead, Bedelia?” Jack questions then.

“You’re on the brink of losing your job Jack. Why this obsession? Let them remain dead, if not in the outside world, at least in your mind let Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham remain somewhere in the deep dark ocean far from reach.” The lighter clicks, and she draws a deep breath, smoke filling her lungs.

“You didn’t answer the question.” His voice is firm, unyielding. He had spent too long hunting down the Chesapeake Ripper; having caught him it was impossible to let him be free again now. Not when he’d taken Will. Will was his, his mind to play with. Jack didn’t see it this way, though. Will was a genius he couldn’t let escape his grasp and control. He felt betrayed now that Will had chosen the other side. He would have to lock him up, too.

“Hannibal Lecter won’t die until he eats both you and me Jack.”

“And Will?”

“They’re the same person now. He’s too far into Hannibal’s web to be set free anymore.”

Jack nods at this, silent. He takes his hat off the table and begins to leave Bedelia’s home. He doesn’t say goodbye. Instead he turns to Bedelia as he leaves, asking simply, “How long have you been in love with Hannibal Lecter?” He lets the door shut with a click, not wanting her answer. Bedelia would be of no help to him any longer.

It’s only then, when she can no longer hear Jack Crawford’s steps outside of her door that she lets herself cry. She had never let herself break down like this before, never let herself yearn for the darkness that she’d tasted before. She’s pitiful almost, stuck in a cage in her mind. She’s found as a psychiatrist that Stockholm syndrome isn’t confined to situations of physical capture. She is held captive by Hannibal Lecter, still. And try as hard as she did, she couldn’t help it, to fall in love with the captor of her mind. He’s slowly stolen the freedom of her sanity. And even though she hasn’t seen him for years, he’s an ever-present specter standing beside her, whispering dirty little phrases in her ear. _“You miss me, don’t you?”_ Hannibal whispers to her. And she does. She misses the fear that makes her wet for him. She misses the dead look in his eyes that lets her know, she’s nothing to him but everything to his stomach. And she loves it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Hozier--Take Me To Church

Chapter 7

The breeze is cold against their skin as they stare out in front of them. They’re more north now. Will wonders how Hannibal had found this place—it wasn’t something he had purchased to use as a vacation home. It was larger than his home had been in Baltimore, graced with a Victorian feel, grey and pale yellow in color. It was much more than they needed— _“No, it’s much more than I need,”_ Will corrects himself. Hannibal had longed for his former life as a curator of fine things. His collection included Will, too. But now that Will was at his side, Hannibal’s priority was to secure the same lavish lifestyle he had made for himself in Baltimore. He thought northern Ontario was a suitable location, only a half a day's drive from Montreal, he could imagine making a life for himself here.

“I know you must be wondering how I purchased this place,” Hannibal smiles to himself as he watches the leaves of the large oak tree in front of the home shake in the wind. “I have several funds in overseas banks from since I was a young man. The FBI never knew of them, so they couldn’t block withdrawals from the accounts.” He feels as if in a way he’s outsmarted the FBI. This satisfies him to his core. “We could live very comfortably for the rest of our lives, not having to work.”

But Will knows better; Hannibal could never sit idle at home. He would need to insert himself into higher society. Perhaps not immediately, but slowly over time when his face is but a distant blurry memory in people’s eyes, he’ll achieve the social status he is lacking now. _“This isn’t a sustainable life,”_ Will surmises. But he wants to let Hannibal live as he chooses, so he doesn’t stay a word for now.

“We are at least fifteen kilometers from the nearest homes,” Hannibal says to Will as if he already knows that Will is worried. It’s true, Hannibal had found a little villa in the middle of a forest, uninhabited at partially furnished. He had a way about these things. A kind of luck that a killer needs to operate in his prime.

“We should christen the kitchen,” Will says, imagining taking Hannibal from behind as he pours wine over human-steak in a sauté pan.

“I was about to say the same.” Hannibal pulls Will in for a soft kiss, deepening it when he senses Will’s excitement. _“Maybe I can be happy,”_ Hannibal muses to himself. This is as close as he’s ever been to happiness, and it feels exhilarating.

****

Hannibal sits at the piano, the fingers of his right hand playing a soft, morbid melody. It’s close to his heart, and he thinks back in time to when he first felt the tug at his heart. He remembers it clearly, the sound of Will Graham’s voice tantalizing his ears. It was instantaneous. _“Don’t psychoanalyze me, you won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”_ Hannibal saw it then, too. The dark look in his eyes, like a grey cloud storming over his ocean eyes. It made his heart pound, and he knew he was lost. At first, he hated Will for reminding him of the organ in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to destroy Will in revenge. Making Hannibal feel was perhaps the rudest thing Will had ever done to Hannibal.

But then, with every meeting, as Hannibal planted the seeds to destroy Will, something stronger was born. He couldn’t deny it any longer when Will was taken to the Baltimore State Mental Hospital. He recalls sitting in front of Bedelia, a tear falling down his cheek as he spoke to her of Abigail.

_“Will is a loss, too.”_ Ah, there it was—the sound of Bedelia’s voice still etched in his mind. It was the reminder of what had consumed Hannibal. He had single handedly orchestrated Will’s demise because Hannibal couldn’t understand love, not then. And yet, the longer Will sat in his cell, shouting bloody murder at Hannibal—the more Hannibal’s heart ached for Will. It would have been easier to leave Will as the guilty party. Hannibal would have left unscathed, deemed a good man by the FBI. Instead, he risked his credibility by letting Will go free.

He looks to Will sitting across the room, reading. Hannibal turned himself in for this man. Who else could he have done this for? Hannibal closes his eyes, drawing far into his mind palace back to the day where Will had betrayed him first.

****

_The smell of Will’s terrible aftershave again—how he teases me. Hmmm. Jack’s in the other room, Alana is paralyzed on my front lawn. Abigail is somewhere—perhaps staring outside of the window down at Alana. I hadn’t anticipated this. Will called. Why did he call? No matter, he took Jack's side._

_I step back from the scene, Abigail and Will talking to each other. Abigail assuring Will that they couldn’t have left without him. What if I had chosen to act differently?_

_I grab Will by the hand then, Abigail following behind. Suddenly we’re far from my home in Baltimore. Will and I are in bed, listening to the waves of the Atlantic behind us. The three lost years in a mental institution are gone. The Red Dragon is distant in the future._

_Will lets me brush my lips against his._

_What if I had chosen this instead?_

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip. . ._

_Abigail’s dead on the floor, bleeding out._

_Will is at my feet, cut open and bleeding. I could have killed him. But I couldn’t. The teacup shattered, the sound of it echoing in my ears over and over as I walk away from him._

_Florence. The smell of incense in the air. My bleeding heart cast out for Will to see; I know he will. Is his heart broken, too? What a lovely pair we make, constantly bruising and beating each other._

_Will is looking for me. I’m hiding—a coward. I can’t face him or I will crumble._

_The tunnels are dark, and I can smell his breath. He’s close. It's as if the room is spinning. I'm dizzy._

_When I think he’s found me, all I can hear are the words I already knew to be true. “I forgive you.”_

_Florence, still. The dinner table. Jack at one end and Will at the other. I would feel a god consuming him, just as Kronos consumed his own children to ensure his protection and longevity. I begin to slice into Will’s head. My mind screams: NO._

_What if we had eaten Jack together instead?_

_Wolf Trap Virginia. We’re safe now, in Will’s home. “I’m not going to miss you. I’m not going to find you. I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to think about you anymore. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do.” I would cut my heart out and eat it if I could—what use is it to me now?_

_So be it. I will eat you, Will._

_Jack’s outside. He's panting, thinking he's finally caught me. Joke's on you, you're like the village fool, Jack. I'll make a laughing stock out of you. Plant your carcass in a Renaissance fair, jester's hat on your fat head. Pure rage. The next moment, I don't expect. “He’s gone, Jack.” A glimmer of hope. Will doesn’t turn me in._

_Perhaps. Perhaps he does love me._

_I can’t run. My legs heavy transport me to Jack. I kneel. My mind is dizzy, but I stare at Will. I need him to see my eyes, to gaze into my person. Only he could ever see me this way._

_“I want you to know exactly where I am and where you can always find me.”_

_He’ll come. He must._

****

Will’s voice transports Hannibal back to reality. “How are you feeling?” he asks teasingly. He misses the psychiatry.

“Better now,” is all Hannibal says as he sighs, putting his fingers back on the piano.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got my bubu on the fanfiction ship. 
> 
> Song: Linkin Park--Castle of Glass (my bubu's suggestion <3)

Chapter 8

It had been a week or so since the last of Hannibal’s orders had been brought to their new home. It was no easy feet to bring the new furniture into the home. Hannibal had ordered them to the outskirts of a small town in northern Ontario. He knew of Alana’s trick to help capture him; he would not make the same mistake again. Instead, he would travel at night to pick up his orders from the storage unit he placed under a pseudonym registered under the address of an old friend of his in Paris. 

Hannibal cuts vegetables in his now completed kitchen. It had a modern finish, with a twist of old with dark ebony cabinetry polished to perfection contrasting the pewter handles. It is a simple yet elegant design, with a large island in the center and hanging over it a delicate light fixture that almost resembles the movement of hooded grebe’s courtship dance. The counter is a solid pink-grey quartz that glimmers in the morning sunlight. Hannibal appreciates it every day as he cooks up a protein scramble and cappuccino for breakfast. The kitchen is expansive, giving Hannibal more than enough room to make love to his cuisine—Hannibal did not cook, he created beauty and art. Will never tires of his creations, always wondering what his lover would come up with next.

Hannibal lets the Lacrimosa of Mozart’s Requiem play softly in the background as he moves gracefully, slicing through an oxtail carefully, savoring the sound of the metal against meat complimenting the music. It’s an intimate dance, the way he moves in the kitchen; he’s a lustful partner and his meal a temptress he must claim as his own. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms exposed. He is the master of this new kitchen. He sips wine as he waits for the oxtail to come from the oven; it has been quite a while since he’s tasted ossobuco.

****

Bedelia sits across the private detective she’s hired. She doesn’t offer the name of who she’s looking for or why; and the detective doesn’t care to ask anyhow. He’s been in this business too long to be interested in why people go looking or who. But he knows she’s lying when she says that the man is her former husband, even though it had been true in a way. They played husband and wife for a time, in Florence.

“The way to find him is to track purchases of rare foods and wines. Perhaps a piano or harpsicord as well. Along with those should be multiple luxury purchases of furniture, watches, and suits. His preferred tailor is from Paris, a small shop called Moreau. If he hasn’t already, he will soon start ordering these items,” she states coolly.

It’s as if Hannibal has his fingers wrapped around her pale throat, pushing her to find him. She’s gone mad at the thought of Hannibal. She needed to kill him herself in order to lay this demon to rest. It is easier than admitting that Jack was right.

_At night when she closes her eyes, Hannibal’s there. Naked. His eyes flash red as he licks his lips. “It’s been so long, Bedelia,” he tells her._

_She’s too weak to scream. Instead she lets him drag her into his arms. His lips nearly brush up against hers before she feels another presence behind her. The cold metal against her throat. She still does not move._

_“Bluebeard’s wives,” Will whispers into her ear, nibbling on it. “You have the tongue of a snake,” he tells her. “Remember all the wicked little things you told me?”_

_Hannibal growls. “That was quite rude of you Bedelia. Have you gotten jealous?” Hannibal moves closer to her; his lips pressing against hers. As she is about to melt in for the kiss, he bites down on her tongue and pulls it out of her mouth, blood spurting on his face._

_Hannibal’s head moves to Will, tongue halfway out of his lips. They kiss then, Will taking half of the tongue. “Is this what you wanted, love?” he asks Will._

_“Almost,” Will laughs, the knife pressed tighter against Bedelia’s neck. “It’s a shame we won’t be sharing dinner with you tonight,” Will breathes as he slits Bedelia’s throat._

_Every night, she wakes in a sweat. Screaming. Hot tears flow down her cheeks as she curls up into a ball, hiding under the covers. “Fuck you,” she speaks to his invisible ghost. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” over and over, her body shaking, until she her throat is raw from the screams._

The private detective stares back at Bedelia, calculating. He wonders then how much she must love her “former husband” to go searching for him; the fee was high to track someone down when they could be anywhere in the world. The next words he does not expect.

“When you find him, I want you to tell me the location. I’ll be the one who travels to wherever he is.” She falls back into her seat, fishing through her purse for the last cigarette in her pack. After she lights it, she slides a check to the man sitting across her. It’s written for two hundred thousand dollars, half up front. Next to it is a small picture she’s kept of Hannibal, hidden at the bottom of a drawer she hadn’t opened until that day. “Do we have a deal?”

The detective pauses, exhaling loudly. He recognizes the face from the tabloids and novels. Perhaps it’s not him, but he could swear. But the amount she was paying him was more than double his fee for this sort of work. He wouldn’t have to travel. He wouldn’t get close. What harm could there be? “Yes,” he finally agrees.

She nods at him before getting up and leaving, a puff of smoke remaining in the room after she closes the door.

****

Will carries his fishing pole and gear as he walks through the thin path in the forest behind their home. There was a small creek at the end of the path; no doubt Hannibal had known this when he had purchased the home. Will is thankful that Hannibal considered his needs, as well. Though Will had caught nothing that day, he is thankful for the chance it gives him to unwind. As he walks, his mind is wanders to the images of the frozen river in Wolf Trap.

_My breath is white against the cold air. I feel calm now, calmer than ever before. This is the place I always want to be. Except something is missing; I feel this emptiness I can’t quite place. I’ve always felt lonely, but this is more than that. It’s as if my heart is yearning for a presence—why am I so incomplete?_

_There’s a tug on the string of my fishing pole. I try to reel in the catch, but it’s heavy. I pull and tug, harder than I’ve ever had to before for any fish. Perhaps my hook is stuck. I lay my fishing pole down on the ground as a take the string into my hand._

_It never ends, the string. There must be ten yards of it behind me, but I feel that I need to pull more. My arms are tired and hands cut from the effort. Finally, I see it. The body. Staring at me from the water, blood seeping from the cuts._

_“A nice catch,” Hannibal whispers behind me. We pull it from the water together, but it’s no longer dead. It’s breath, alive._

_Hannibal hands the scalpel to me as he holds the man still, fear in his eyes. “What shall we take from him first?” I make an incision above the groin; it’s messy and jagged. “It’s alright Will, you have to learn.” I make another incision under the navel and connect the two with a line. There are two flaps now, digestive system exposed. I allow his intestines to spill out as Hannibal watches me, smiling._

_“Sausage, tonight?” I ask him._

Will’s thoughts are interrupted when he trips in the woods. He’s gone off the path a few yards. As he stands, he sees the dead body covered by the leaves. Who would have left it there? The pendulum swings in front of his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flora Cash: You're Somebody Else
> 
> Trying to fight through the writer's block, but I hope it's at least half-way decent.
> 
> Up next: Hannibal and Will centric chapter.

Chapter 9

Will lays next to Hannibal in bed, neither of the men wanting to move. The bed is king sized, much larger than they need. Their legs are tangled together under the burgundy sheets, warmth spreading between them. He places a hand on Will’s check, his thumb brushes over Will’s lips gently. The sun peaks in between the long, grey curtains. Will’s blue eyes look even more mesmerizing with the light dancing on their surface. Hannibal lets himself get lost in those eyes, and he feels like he’s drowning. They’re deadly that way.

For the first time since being with Hannibal after the fall, Will feels at ease. The doubt that had almost grown familiar seems to have dissipated. This is it. _The calm before the storm._ “Have you ever contemplated God?” Will asks him.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever been a religious man,” Hannibal laughs. It’s strangely melodic, the way the perfect laugh would sound in a picture-perfect world. But this is just one of the many layers of Hannibal. Will had dug through the person-suit he wore, past the hurt, and finally tore of the chains that sealed what was underneath. And there it is, surprisingly, a bit of human splashed over the soul of a murderer.

“Not religion. It’s too conformist. And no one could possibly follow it, not truly. I mean the nature of God.” Will presses a small kiss to the nape of Hannibal’s neck.

“Clever, seeing as you have him right next to you to answer your questions.”

“You can be a stuck-up bastard, you know?”

“I could eat you right now.” Hannibal pauses. “I imagine God would be like us.”

“He doesn’t eat the delivery driver for breakfast, though.” Will stares at the ceiling now. “No, God would be beautifully corrupt. Evil.”

“Perhaps, God is even worse than we are. The masses would never see it this way. We eat the rude, and God? God takes whoever he pleases. It’s for a reason, some will justify.”

“But you appreciate what God does, in a way.”

“For the simple fact that he murders without batting an eyelash. It’s elegant.” Hannibal is content, speaking with Will however he wants to. No façade needed.

“Do you want to be worshipped like God, Hannibal?”

“Jack is already our worshipper, following us no matter the cost.”

****

Jack wouldn’t have predicted the hits his career has taken as a young FBI agent, but now having hunted, captured, and lost the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack wonders— _Am I a laughingstock?_ He sips at his whiskey, alone in his home. Before he had Bella to keep him company on days like these. He walks to the window in his bedroom, peaking through the blinds. It’s been years since he’s lost her, but the loneliness always returns on these dreary days when it’s raining outside, and Jack is reminded how much has slipped through his fingers.

_Will Graham_. It’s a nausea filled name to Jack. He holds the gun, the small black weapon feeling heavier than an anvil his hands. He shoves it in the drawer of his nightstand. He hadn’t lost all hope yet. He would die catching Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham—of this he was certain.

Jack had begun follow Bedelia soon after their meeting, knowing that one day she would crack and soon. His intuition was correct, when he saw her entering the home of one Nigel Dittmann, a private investigator and ex-FBI agent. Jack had worked in the field with him briefly before Nigel’s departure from the FBI. So, Jack sat in his small black Mercedes with tinted windows, knowing that soon Bedelia would lead him straight to Hannibal.

He would hand this pet project over soon, to a new student. Perhaps the one that sat in the front row and listened attentively to every lecture—the one with the zeal he needed on an unofficial case like this. The one with a mind just tainted enough that Hannibal just may bite.

The next day, Jack sits in his office sorting through the case files on Hannibal Lecter and the FBI’s profile on ex-agent Will Graham. He knows that it’s painful, and yet he reads every word on each page, reliving the moment he met Hannibal Lecter. _“How had I been so blind?”_ Jack asks himself.

There’s a knock at his door, softly “Agent Crawford?” it asks, rough for a woman’s voice. She walks in, and she stand there short and with brown hair. She’s thin, but there’s a strength about her. Her deep brown eyes hide a kind of pain and yearning to be read.

“Clarice Starling,” Jack says standing from his desk, holding his hand out to her for a handshake.

****

Will’s tempted to return to the body in the forest. He tells Hannibal that he needs to take a walk alone, shutting the door softly behind him. The leaves crunch beneath his feet. There’s a heaviness in his chest, but he ignores this. The closer he is to the body, the more it worsens. But his mind is on fire—he needs to understand.

He brushes the leaves off the corpse’s face. Its lips are blue and eyes are closed. He was strangled, brutally. The bruises around his neck are a disgusting shade of purple. He hears the swinging of the pendulum.

_Hurt. I’m hurt; that’s all there is. It’s not a physical pain but fuck it’s worse. Something’s ripping me from the inside, and I need to make him hurt too. But I don’t let him know at first, it’s not so simple as that._

_I take him home first, make him feel comfortable. For a time, he thinks maybe he’ll be mine. And he will be, but not in the way he’s thinking. But I get lost in the fantasy. Maybe he’ll take care of me, protect me. After time, I show him the room. But he screams when he sees it; he doesn’t understand. I feel betrayed. Why can’t he understand? I thought maybe, maybe he could be you._

_I tie him up and hold him captive. This is how I like him. We’ll have fun. Maybe he’ll understand with time._

_And then the pain; it returns again. Agony. I can’t breathe. My mind is spinning. It’s his fault. His fault. His fault. His fault._

_I take him far away into the forest, where no one will find him. And then I realize that his face in the leaves is not the face I want to see. So I cover it up, crying to myself. Why couldn’t you love me? I sit there and stare for a while._

_This is my design._

Will wipes the tears from his face.

****

Hannibal watches from behind the tree as Will gets lost, looking at the body. He’s speechless now; a sense of betrayal hits him as Will hadn’t shared this with him. He could tell that Will had discovered the body before. Did Will not trust him? He walks away before Will leaves, walking home quietly through the tress.

Once home, he pulls _Perfume_ off his shelf, flipping to the page where he left the ornate metal bookmark. He sips at his wine, waiting for Will to come home and sit across from him. And so, he’ll wait. Patiently. Until he reveals this small betrayal. And then, who knows what Hannibal would do?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Eilish--I Love You
> 
> My bubu says I've been lazy, so I will have to upload two chapters today. Second one Will come in the evening.

Chapter 10

Another kill, lying there in the leaves. The air is colder now, frost biting at skin. Will stands, staring at the body. Time stops. Slowly the leaves retract back to their place from before; the body is no longer there. The scene is bare.

_You’re not right, but I thought you were. You couldn’t see either. And it’s your fault. I drag your body through the forest, not caring how much dirt you pick up. You’re filth anyway. I lay you down in the small clearing far off the path. You’ll lay here forgotten—so I can forget you._

_Your glassy eyes stare back at me dead; it’s a reminder that you don’t love me._

_I can’t look anymore. I don’t want to look._

_I place the leaves on your face._

_There. You don’t exist anymore._

_This is my design._

Will stands there, speechless. He replays the scene in his mind as many times as he can. If he stayed in the forest long enough, would he meet her by chance? He inhales, thinking about the beautiful monster somewhere far away yet close.

****

It’s like a lion stalking its pray, deadly silent. Hannibal does this chase daily with Will, watching him every time he leaves for the forest. It’s the third body that’s appeared in the forest near their home. He would have to get rid of this killer soon, so that the Canadian authorities don’t come looking to their property. If they managed to track the killer, somehow, their perfect hideaway would no longer be so perfect. Hannibal couldn’t have that.

After the third body, Hannibal is worried why Will hadn’t told him yet. _“Why can’t dear Will trust me?”_ He paces the library back and forth, looking at the sea of books above around him. _“Maybe he doesn’t want me to kill her; he knows I would have to. But why does he value her?”_

Hannibal sits in his armchair, leaning back. He feels alone, and that feeling is no longer comfortable. He retracts into his mind palace, closing his eyes.

_Will is under him, at his mercy on their bed. “Please,” he whispers into Hannibal’s ear._

_Obligingly, Hannibal sticks his throbbing cock into Will’s needy hole._

This wouldn’t do, Hannibal thinking to himself. He couldn’t have his lover keeping secrets from him. And while he could have enjoyed playing this game of cat and mouse a while longer, he knows he can’t.

He leaves the library and settles himself in the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the door. He watches Will as he moves to make a hearty chili to warm him and Hannibal up for the cold day. Will closes his eyes, feeling the wendigo creep up behind him, sinking its claws into Will. A chill runs down his spine. _“Go away,”_ he urges in his mind.

“You’ve been hiding something from me, Will,” Hannibal says, snapping Will away from the wendigo.

“And what would that be?” Will doesn’t turn to face Hannibal—he doesn’t want him to see his eyes. They would betray him.

“I’d rather you tell me now, William.”

“ _Ah—William. Cute.”_ Will laughs. “You’re assuming I only have one secret from you. Tell me which one you want.”

“You’re not playing a very nice game.” Hannibal waits, letting them stand in silence.

“You’re been following me,” Will finally gives in. “The bodies in the forest.”

“Why, Will?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“What do you value about her so much that would make you hide these events?”

Will turns, looking Hannibal in the eye. “I don’t know,” he exhales brokenly. “I don’t.”

Hannibal’s mouth crashes on top of Will’s. “You’re only mine.” He bites Will’s neck, leaving dark bruises. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” Will moans. “Yours.”

Hannibal rips apart Will’s shirt, leaving its shreds on the ground. “You won’t keep secrets from me anymore,” he mutters into Will’s back, then brushes his tongue up the back of Will’s neck. “I simply won’t allow it.” His pants fall to his feet.

Will bends over the kitchen counter, spreading his ass cheeks for Hannibal. “Show me I’m yours,” Will demands.

Hannibal unzips his trousers, and brushes his cock over Will’s opening, teasing him. “I’m not quite sure you deserve it.” He puts the tip in and then removes it.

“I’ll do anything.”

“What are you other secrets? Tell me them all.”

Will pauses, unsure what to say. “That’s the only secret I’ve kept from you,” he offers.

Hannibal bends over, his chest on Will’s back, Hannibal’s suit a barrier between them. “I know you’re lying,” he utters as he nibbles on Will’s ear. “I don’t like being lied to.” He slips a finger inside of Will. “Looks like I’ll have to keep you on the edge until you’re a mess.”

“I’m your mess.”

“Not with these secrets.”

Will’s vision blurs as he melts into the pleasure. “You’re cruel.”

“It’s you who is cruel, Will,” Hannibal’s voice unexpectedly breaking. He can’t stand the lack of trust between them. “How you make my chest ache—that’s cruel.”

Will is on the brink when Hannibal slides his fingers out. “Ha-Hannibal,” he stutters. He didn’t want to tell Hannibal, not now. But he felt his pain and it tore at his insides. “I started seeing the stag, the wendigo. Ever since we came to Canada.”

“Very good,” Hannibal groans as he thrusts into Will violently. “What else?”

Will moans underneath him, “I love you.”

“You hate me,” Hannibal counters, thrusting harder.

“No. I love you,” Will chokes out. “I love you, Hannibal. I can’t hate you, not anymore.”

Hannibal comes inside of Will, breathing heavily.

****

Bedelia sits on the plane, sipping at pinot grigio as she stares out of the window at the clouds. Her heart pounds in her chest. They were to land in just a few hours and she would be in Moscow. The money trail had led her to several places, but Moscow seemed to be a fitting choice. She thinks of the prospect of seeing Hannibal again. She would carry a knife in her pocket. She wanted to see the look on Hannibal’s face as she took Will’s life first. How sweet his suffering would be. And then, perhaps Hannibal would understand.

Rows behind her in the aisle seat, Clarice watches her. She studies her movements, how Bedelia’s finger twitches as it grips her wine glass. She sees the neurosis biting at Bedelia’s psyche. “ _How had the FBI gone so long without apprehending her?”_ Clarice asks herself.

She thinks back to Jack, asking her to take this case. No one in the FBI would question it—a low level profiler-in-training running errands for “the guru” as Jack was called among the students. She should feel honored, but she doesn’t. How could she thank him when her mission is to find Hannibal Lecter? And yet, some voice in the back of her head tells her to revel in the challenge.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Eilish, Khalid--Lovely

Chapter 11

Hannibal sits in the middle of a crowd, Will next to him. The lights are dimmed, a light on the stage instead illuminating the performers. They watch the Romeo and Juliet ballet. Will looks to Hannibal, watching the expressions on his face change. He loves it when Hannibal’s lips part like the petals of a rose unfurling in a pink orgasm. Hannibal wears a three-piece suit, navy blue with purple accents and a cream-colored undershirt highlighting the lilac tie he dons. Will’s outfit is simpler, a crisp white button down, sleeves rolled up of course, and charcoal grey vest and trousers. This is their first foray into high society, Hannibal’s itch now uncontrollable. He isn’t made for sitting at home like a beautiful vase left unused.

Hannibal bends over to Will who is still looking at him in a trance, “We’re here to watch the ballet, darling,” he whispers. He squeezes Will’s hand in his lap.

Will adjusts his glasses and looks back to the dancers. His attention doesn’t hold, a familiar black clawed hand creeping onto his shoulder and steeling him away from the evening. It whisks him to a realm he’s left behind, Hannibal’s old home in Baltimore.

_The leaves crunch under his feet, the smallest snowflakes just starting to fall. The wendigo leads Will farther into the home, into the kitchen. It motions for Will to sit in the chair next to the island, glass of blood waiting for him to sip at._

_There’s a stage light on them, illuminating the kitchen. Faceless, it seems to be smiling at him without lips. It takes the arm on the cutting board, slicing the meat away from the bone in thin slices. The aroma of the butter and herbs in the pan intoxicate Will. With a thin coat of flour, the meat sizzles on the pan. Another glass of blood is poured—Will hadn’t noticed he had already drunk the first one._

_The kitchen is spinning, and Will lands at a long table with white tablecloth. Violin music is heavy in the air, a poignant melody playing. The wendigo stands at the middle, placing a covered dish on the table. The cover is lifted, Jack’s head sitting on the platter, apple in mouth._

_The black creature sits at the table across from Will now, claws scratching at its face. Slowly it peels away the dark layer, revealing Hannibal underneath. “Suckling pig,” he says, brown eyes gazing at Will. Hannibal's face exudes a twisted pleasure; he's smirking at Will. He looks like the devil now, his body black from the neck down and fingers clawed. This is what Hannibal must truly look like, under the three-piece suits and person-suit he wears as a disguise. There's a fire in his eyes, burning hot and filled with bloodlust._

_Hannibal appears before him then, fully dressed in black. He offers Will his hand, and Will takes it carefully. “Let’s dance,” Hannibal demands. Will stands, holding his breath. He plays along, his body almost willing him to do so. The music plays louder now. The table disappears slowly, and they’re standing in the dining room. The spotlight is on them as they dance a Viennese waltz. For a moment, Will relaxes into Hannibal. Jack and Bedelia appear, a headless Jack wearing a tuxedo and Bedelia a white dress that would adorn a corpse. They switch partners, the music faster now. Will dances with Jack and Hannibal with Bedelia._

_"Are you happy, Will?" Bedelia looks to Will as she dances, a centipede crawling out of her mouth. "Are you happy sharing the same fate as all those who come across Hannibal Lecter share?" Blood begins to stain her dress at her waist, the stain growing larger as she dances._

_Blood begins to stain the floor, the thick drops of blood leaking down her legs. Will turns from the sight, looking to Jack, his head reattached with a bleeding cut at the neck. "Perhaps I should have listened to Alan when she told me that you were unstable. I thought maybe I'd send you to a white padded room, some day. This--this I never expected." Jack bends closer to Will, to whisper in his ear, sputtering blood as he speaks. "How does it feel, being Hannibal Lecter's latest patient-victim? Is it worth it?"_

_“You dance wonderfully, Will,” he hears Hannibal say, but their partners dissolve into nothingness as the music changes tempo again. Will falls to the floor, his head near the fireplace._

_Hannibal stands over him, knife in hand. “How sad it is when lovers must part,” he quips._

_Will opens his mouth, but there is no scream._

“Will,” Hannibal says, snatching the man’s face. “The ballet is over now.” He analyzes Will’s face, reading each line as if it were a novel. “What’s the last thing you remember.”

“You told me to keep watching the ballet,” Will mutters as he pulls away from Hannibal and stands. 

“Your mental state is eroding,” Hannibal replies.

Will pushes past the people leaving their seats, farther from Hannibal. He hears him call his name, but he doesn’t turn. He takes the back entrance out to their car. He fishes in his pockets for the keys, only to find that they’re not there.

“Damn,” he spits.

Hannibal catches up to him, placing his hand on Will’s arm. “I wasn’t aware that these hallucinations have progressed so far.”

“What? Are you afraid that I’ll kill you!” Will replies gruffly. “Are you scared that I’ll enjoy the taste of you so thoroughly that I wouldn’t leave a piece of you on this earth, so that there is no trace of Hannibal Lecter to bring a cruel justice to humanity?”

“Is that what you want to do, Will?” his eyes are softer and watery. “Would you like to consume me?” He cups Will’s cheek with his hand. "Are you worried that maybe I'd even let you?"

“No,” he finally relents. “I’m unstable. I’ve never been more unstable.”

“This is the most stable I’ve ever seen you,” Hannibal replies. “You’ve finally come to be as you are.”

“You make a shitty psychiatrist.” Will laughs, and he can’t seem to stop. “The absolute worst. How did you have so many patients again?” He backs away from Hannibal, looking around him in the darkness of the night. “You breed the insane. Can’t say that’s a very good track record.” Will point to Hannibal now, “And now—now I’m your masterpiece.”

Hannibal simply turns away from Will and unlocks the car. “We really should get going before someone comes along to hear us. This really isn’t the place to have such a conversation.”

“Scared of the attention now, are we?” Will spits back, going to the passenger seat of the car. Once inside he puts his head in his hands, closing his eyes. Tears trickle into his hands. “God, who even am I?” he finally asks himself out loud.

Hannibal is silent as he drives the car, letting the silence soak into their skin and burn.

****

Bedelia stands in front of a building, wearing a thick coat to fight the frigid cold. It’s the early morning, the sun just barely peaking over the horizon streaking the sky with pinks and oranges. She enters the knocks the door three times, as she was told to do. She brushes over her coat with her right hand, triple checking that the gun is in her pocket.

There’s no answer, but she waits. She knocks again, three times.

The door opens slightly, “Kto ty, chert voz'mi?” it answers.

“I only speak English,” she responds, her voice flat.

“I will say again, for you to understand. Who the fuck are you?” the man replies, his voice rough.

“Simona, Simona Lecter.” She gives off an air of relaxation. “My husband told me to come here.”

“That last name is not familiar to me.” He moves to close the door.

“He would tell you that. The problem is, you’ve messed up one of his orders and he is very unhappy as a result. I’d like to help fix it so that you don’t face any problems in the future. My husband is not a very merciful man.”

The man waits for a moment before letting her in and closing the door behind her promptly. “I am Igor,” he grumbles as he leads her up the stairs of the building.

“When is the last time he’s come here?” she asks him carefully.

They sit in a small room, half-smoked cigarette sitting on the ash tray at the center of the table. There are a few empty bottles of beer on the floor, but not much else. “He has never been here,” he responds, frowning.

“And what about a man, thin with brown curly hair and blue eyes. His name is Will Graham.”

“I don’t know this name, truly,” he takes the cigarette from the ash try and re-lights it. “You are asking too many questions for an unhappy customer.” He’s middle-aged, with salt and pepper hair, and deep lines in his face. He looks wholly unpleasant, not the type of man Hannibal would work with.

“What does it matter to you if I am asking questions. I am trying to understand what it is you do for my husband.”

“You are not his wife,” he responds. “If you were, you would know what he does,” Igor laughs. “Or at least, you are a shit wife.”

Her eyes are deadly now, the angles of her face turning sharp. “How do you contact him?”

“He calls me every now and again, regarding the shipment.”

“And what do you do with the shipment?”

“I send it to him, of course.” Igor leans in towards her, “And I let him know that no one’s coming asking too many questions. Did your friend Jack send you here?” Igor says, pointing a gun to Bedelia’s forehead, leaving her too little time to draw her own weapon.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Childish Gambino--Redbone
> 
> Expect More Hannibal and Will next chapter!

Chapter 12

Clarice follows Bedelia on the streets. She’s envious of how Bedelia walks with her head held high, as if she’s afraid of nothing. It seems inhumane. Clarice’s tendency to psychoanalyze isn’t held at bay; she sees Bedelia for what she is.

_She was normal once, perhaps plain even. She went through university being noticed for her flowing blonde locks and attractive facial features. But she was quiet and kept to herself for the most part. She didn’t want to be noticed for those things. She wanted to be regarded for her mind. And then, she woke up one day sick of the banality. She was tired of being underestimated by her peers and superiors; tired of the male professors coming onto her. And so, she went on to medical school. From medical school, she chose psychiatry._

_She wasn’t aware of the growing anger and disdain inside of her. It’s funny how you can miss things like that in yourself, when you look for them in everyone else. It crept onto her slowly, the interior monologue where she praises herself constantly._

_And then the heartbreak. Like her porcelain heart had been dropped carelessly, shattered. She wasn’t born narcissistic; she built her narcissism from a place of no confidence. Hannibal Lecter came along and reminded her of her lack of confidence, and for once in her life she felt the opposite of what she was told before—she’s not beautiful, not special. And certainly, the one thing she had feared most, she felt interesting no longer. Hannibal became an obsession then._

_He needs to see. See who Bedelia is and keep her in the game he plays._

_She would be perfect for Hannibal if he was the type of sadist who enjoys masochists; but instead, he pities them and finds them to be weak. I can tell from the file on Hannibal that Jack gave me. He’s no longer interested in Bedelia, because she’s so deluded that she enjoys how little he thinks of her. Perhaps Hannibal had always seen this; had always intended to consume Bedelia._

The snow on the ground is now a couple of centimeters thick, as Clarice stares out at the building where Bedelia had entered. She had been in there now for nearly half an hour, which Clarice suspects is too long. She looks at the side of the building, a black metal ladder leading to the roof is attached to its side. Looking around her to see no one, Clarice decides to climb the ladder, her heart pounding inside of her chest. It creeks beneath with every step she takes, but she takes the chance anyway.

Each window shows only a dark room, until she is one floor from the top and finally sees a lit room with two people inside. She steps off onto the metal balcony, and into the window through its right side. She expects to see Hannibal there, but it’s not. It’s a foreign face to her, and she gets ready to climb back down and wait for Bedelia when she sees the man pull out a gun. Taking her fun out of its holster, she points carefully at the man.

Seconds pass but they feel like minutes. It’s the slightest change in his posture that alerts Clarice, letting her know that this is not a bluff. She pulls the trigger, shooting him non-fatally, nicking the side of his neck. Her mind races as she slides down the ladder and runs across the street to watch Bedelia’s exit. She couldn’t let Bedelia die, not now. They would lose their trail to Hannibal, otherwise.

****

Inside, Bedelia is shaking as she watches the man in front of her collapse, his gun skidding across the floor. There is no one at the window, she sees. She goes to the ground and crawls over to Igor, “You will tell me where you are sending the shipments.” She holds his neck in her hand, slowing the bleeding.

“Toronto,” he spits, his vision blurring.

She sticker her finger into the bullet wound and twists, “Is that true?”

“Yes!” he shouts, before passing out on the floor.

****

Hannibal is in the market alone, blending in with its customers perfectly. He carries a red basket in his arm, selecting a wine from the shelf. Something a bit older, unsold most likely due to its heft price. It’s a semi-dry white, perfect for pairing with fish. He nods to himself as he places it in the basket, moving on to the fish counter. Perhaps the branzino is fresh, today. _“A nice dinner should set things right with Will,”_ Hannibal thinks to himself.

In the corner of his eye, he sees a short chestnut-haired woman in her early twenties. Her face is red; she’s holding in tears. Her eyes, like melted dark chocolate are filled with a kind of pain that makes his brain twinge. He watches her movements carefully and follows her to the other end of the market. Her hands twitch as she walks, perhaps a form of physical Tourette’s Syndrome. She chooses an empty aisle to walk in circles, as if she’s having an argument with herself that she wants no one else to witness. She inhales deeply before leaving her hiding spot.

She appears at the cash register, looking almost normal. There’s a man there, slightly older than her. She bumps into him, making it seem like an accident.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks before giggling awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to run into you.”

His breath hitches. “No worries. I-uh—I’m Mark.”

Hannibal walks away; there’s something familiar about this man. As he walks to the fish counter, he sees the man discarded in the forest, his face covered in leaves. He smiles, _“How interesting,”_ he muses to himself, _“Perhaps I’ll make breaded veal in a blood-wine reduction soon.”_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daughter--Numbers
> 
> Next Chapter is Will-centric.

Chapter 13

Hannibal places his phone down on the coffee-colored end table and adjust the color of his sage button-down shirt. He hums to himself the melody of La Donna e Mobile, an irremovable smile on his lips. He would have an elegant dinner soon, Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1 playing in the background. He can hear the sound of wine pouring languidly into a glass, the red color of it shimmering in the candlelight. He’s absolutely delighted. What a surprise this would be for Will!

Hearing a knock at the door, Hannibal goes to answer it. It’s that familiar knock with a delicate rhythm, that lets him know it’s Will. Opening the door, he takes Will in for a deep kiss. His tongue brushes over Will’s lips, eliciting a deep moan from the curly haired man. Hannibal cups Will’s face in his hands, stroking his cheeks gently.

Will is the first to pull away, “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes, I must say that I am. I’ve been busy planning.” Hannibal lets go of Will slowly, but his hand remains on the small of Will’s back leading him into the home. He smells it then, the slightest change in Will’s scent— _encephalitis._ He purses his lips together.

“One should eat the rude whenever the opportunity presents itself,” Will jokes.

Hannibal’s heart drops, however. The prospect of a potential elegant dinner is far in his mind now. What is Hannibal to do? Any further altering of Will’s personality due to encephalitis could undo the careful architecture that Hannibal had built in Will’s psyche. “Indeed,” he responds in a whisper. This change would account for Will’s outburst and hallucinations, and while Hannibal revels in the possibility that another push like this could send Will over the edge permanently instead of the back and forth Will experiences, Hannibal is not so naïve as to think that the opposite was not possible. And then, what would he do, with this Will, his Will, gone? “Are you feeling well, Will?”

“I think I have a small cold, probably caught a virus with the temperatures dropping.”

They place themselves in the sitting room. They sit across from each other, resembling the days years ago where Will was the patient and Hannibal the psychiatrist. It sparks a fire in Will, one that excites him to his core. Hannibal pours a bourbon into a glass, plinking into it a few cubes of ice. Hannibal sees it vividly. The cold shudder of love lost; he can see his perfect illusion shattering before him. It’s preemptive, he knows.

_I sit across from Will; his eyes are particularly dangerous this evening. I’m on the edge of my seat as I watch him cut the liver on his plate carefully. “Does he know?” I think to myself almost laughing at the fact._

_Will savors the bite, examining the nuanced flavors soaked into the liver from the sauce. But his face changes, the appreciation crumbles away and turns into disgust. “You’re vile,” Will spits at me. “You disgust me.”_

_My mind palace shatters, leaving me in an empty darkness, sitting in the ornate dining chair surrounded by no one. At my feet is a silver platter, my heart connected by arteries to my chest pumping on the plate. How good it would be to eat it and expel of the inconvenient organ once and for all._

_I shout instead, possessed. “Will!”_

_He walks toward me in the darkness, feeling farther away from me the closer he approaches. He takes a scalpel from his suit jacket and examines it before me. I stare at my reflection in its metal head._

_“Did you ever believe that I could really love you, of all people?” Will asks me callously as he bends and takes my heart into his hand. “I’m surprised you even had this inside of you.” He stabs my heart with the scalpel, and I disappear, leaving only the darkness as a faint memory of my being._

“Something’s changed,” Will tells him, putting his bourbon down. “Do we need to leave, Hannibal?”

“Not at all,” he pauses, calculating. How much should he divulge? He’s conflicted; he would enjoy watching his lover transform further, but now Hannibal cares that Will may suffer. It would cause him pain as well, something which he had not experienced before Will. “Why do you feel that something’s changed?” Hannibal crosses his legs and leans back in the chair.

Will watches Hannibal carefully, ignoring the noose Will sees tightening around Hannibal’s neck. He ignores how it pulls at Hannibal, until his head lay limp on his shoulder and his body falls back into the chair. The hooves of the stag click behind him, and it huffs to Will. “You’re afraid,” Will states flatly.

“Fear has a tricky quality of creeping into people’s minds when it is most unwanted. It’s best to dispel of it while it’s still young.” Hannibal leans forward, watching Will’s pupils expand. He knows Will sees that which isn’t there. Perhaps the stag is keeping them company now, whispering dirty little thoughts into Will’s head. “What do you, see?”

Will tenses in his seat. “You’re dead, a noose wrapped around your neck. My old friend is behind me; he seems to be disappointed.” 

“I am liking your friend at the moment.”

“You know something, Hannibal.” Will bites his lip, looking away from the man sitting across from him. He could no longer stare at the corpse.

“Secrets are a wicked thing to keep, Will. You know I would never keep secrets from you.” Hannibal stands and walks to the desk at the other end of the room. The manipulation is absolutely and irresistibly delicious to him; he can't seem to control himself. He picks up his drawing of a wilting iris and brushes his finger over the edge of the paper. “We should address this tricky business of trust, should we not?”

“Could we ever trust each other, after all that’s happened?” Will stands, turning only to be met with Hannibal’s back. “Are you capable?”

“I’ve trusted you time and time again, William. I can’t say the same about you. There’s always some doubt floating in your mind. Perhaps that’s why I hang at the noose in your mind. Does the vision satisfy you?”

“No,” Will spits as he leaves, his heart a heavy burden in the coffin of his chest. He shuts the door of the room, letting it slam behind him. The vase at the edge of the table falls, shattering on the floor.

****

Hannibal is alone in the forest, a sketchpad in his hand. He sees Mark on the ground, leaves pushed away from his face. So it was the young woman in the store that placed him there. Hannibal smiles to himself. He sketches the face of the man, his eyes open and glassy. There’s a certain quality to the eyes of the deceased that draws Hannibal in. He blows on the paper to dispel of the excess graphite on the page. It’s a perfect likeness, capturing the eerily beautiful death on the man’s face. He thinks back to the woman in the store, the image of her trembling fresh in his mind. It is quite rude that should would decide to use his portion of the forest as her playground. It’s a pity that he would be prevented from performing his artistry for all to see; it would draw too much attention at this wrong moment in time. Instead, he decides to push Will.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hozier--Cherry Wine

Chapter 14

The air is ever chillier, a light dusting of snow on the ground this morning. The sun is just peaking over the horizon, streaking the sky with brilliant purple and magenta hues. Will walks through the small town’s center, towards the bait shop so that he can purchase a new fly for his fishing pole. He adjusts his long navy coat, burying his face into his oversized charcoal grey scarf. His blue eyes peer out over it, hauntingly gazing over the near-empty streets.

In front of him, there’s a chestnut-haired woman walking, and just as she turns to look in his direction, she slips on the streets, letting out a squeak. Will rushes forward to help her up, taking her by her forearm and shoulder. “You should be more careful,” his voice gravely.

“I’m just so clumsy,” she laughs. And then she looks into Will’s eyes, unblinkingly.

He sees their torment immediately, a familiar pain he understands too well. He looks away quickly; her eyes tell too much. But he’s already curious. “I should be on my, way,” he sputters out. “Be more careful,” he says with a nod as he leaves.

“Wait—” she calls after him, “I’d like to buy you a coffee, if that’s alright. It is cold out.”

He feels familiar itch in the back of his head, poking at him. Perhaps this could work in his favor; those eyes aren’t innocent eyes. His trip to the bait shop becomes forgotten. He smiles, showing off his near-perfect teeth. “Alright.” He becomes cool, shoving the awkwardness away. The man he transforms into is what she needs: confident, charming, and unsuspecting. He extends his hand out to her, “My name’s Jack.”

“Annabelle,” she smiles and empty smile. He pretends with her.

****

Leaning back in his chair, Will sips at his black coffee. He watches Annabelle carefully, every move she makes a tell. He feels her satisfaction and hope, an almost-cure to a sickness she’s been fighting.

“What brings you to this town, I haven’t seen you before?” she asks him.

“I got bored of the big city life; I needed a quiet, calm place. And there’s not much fishing we’re I’m from.” He peppers the lies with a piece of truth, making the falsity undetectable. He does need a quiet and calm place, and a place where he can fish. And yes, he was bored. He almost believes the words himself. _I got bored of the big city life_. They’re almost quaint. If only it were that simple; he experienced a different kind of boredom. The kind of boredom that pokes the back of one’s eyes like a migraine. Ordinary life became dull; marriage to Molly became impossible. That almost sounds normal, as normal as a mid-life crisis. Except, the underlying cause was anything but normal. Hannibal Lecter poked a hot prod into Will’s psyche and twisted it so thoroughly. He twisted and twisted until the only word on Will’s mind was Hannibal’s name, synonymous with orgasmic bloodlust.

So, Will plays this game with Annabelle, knowing who she is; a scared girl on the inside with murderous rage. And he plays it because that’s what Hannibal would do, the monster beneath the person-suit smiling all the while.

“This would be the perfect place for that, then. Since nothing ever goes on in this town,” Annabelle replies, laughing a bit. She’s trying to be cute; Will finds it anything but.

“I’ll need you to excuse me for a moment. I have to use the bathroom.” He stands, feeling a presence near him, one that makes his fingertips vibrate in anticipation. The door swings closed as Will walks to the bathroom. He enters it, a violence plastered on his face. “Hannibal?” he calls out.

Hannibal leans against the sink, his hands clasped in front of him coyly. “What a coincidence, finding you here,” a hint of amusement in Hannibal’s voice. “I presume your little date is going well.” Hannibal’s eyes aren’t jealous; instead, they’re still as a lake before a storm.

“You’re enjoying this—why?”

“You should already know, Will. In the very back of you mind you already know why you’re having coffee with her. She attracts you; her mind is as curious to you as one might find Mona Lisa’s smile. Why is she smiling? But it’s not a smile, it’s something more—something volatile and mysterious. You want to know. You must know.”

“You want to stand behind a two-way mirror and watch. It gets you off; you don’t see this is betrayal. You see this as me presenting a gift to you.”

“Are you presenting this gift to me, Will?” Hannibal asks, stepping towards Will.

But Will turns and leaves, the question floating in the air without an answer to catch it.

****

_I follow Annabelle into her home, leaving my car parked in her driveway. Conveniently, she has no neighbors—I understand completely. I watch her walk, her feet unsure of how to move. She feigns nervousness. She sits me down on the couch, her hand brushing over my arm. She’s sensual, her tits peaking out of the low-cut of her tight red shirt. She likes to think that men will find her irresistible; that’s why she’s gotten so many to come home with her._

_“I feel like the luckiest girl in the world,” she whispers into my ear, pressing a kiss onto my neck._

_I feel what she wants me to do next, and so I move in to kiss her. I know it’s not time yet; I don’t say a word as she sticks the needle into the side of my neck. This is what I want, too. I must see the design she’s made._

_It’s black, for a long time. I could almost call the darkness ‘home’._

_When I wake, the room’s unclear. But soon I’m in hyper-focus; there is too much to take in. An ash-grey walled, Victorian style girl’s room filled with old toys adorning shelves. The smell of tea and cookies is thick in the air._

_I’m seated at the circular table, a floral plate in front of me with two small cookies on it. Annabelle sits across from me. She’s smiling, tears on her face. Her father never came home; the younger version of herself splitting from the one that continued developing. Instead it festered in a pile of anger where everyday she waited for her father to come home. And when he didn’t, she decided she would find a new father to replace the old._

_I see Annabelle a seven-year-old girl, hiding behind the tree watching the other girls run to their fathers. They all came. Not hers. She walks home alone, almost stomping her feet as she grips her backpack with her small hands. She throws a tea party, ignoring her mother calling for her to come for dinner. She waits in a pink dress, sitting across from her over-sized teddy bear and asking it if they should wait for daddy to come home. But she the clock keeps ticking, and she keeps sitting. Alone._

_He’ll never come._

_“Hi, Daddy,” she says, her voice child-like._

_I know what she wants me to say; it’s clearer than day. “I’m sorry I came home from work late, baby girl. You’ve made a nice tea party for us.”_

_She nods; it’s almost as if I can read her thoughts. She’s thinking, “He understands,” and she’s elated. She’d keep me as long as she can. She’s finally found the one. She pours me the tea, possibly the first time she’s every poured the tea for anyone. All the others before had screamed._

_Next to me there’s a large stuffed bear, but even it looks scared. “Tell daddy what you did today, Annabelle.” It’s simple; this is the conversation she wants._

_“I went to the store with mommy,” she replies, and then hums to herself. “Do you want to try the cookies?”_

_And so I do, taking a small bite out of the one closest to me. “It’s delicious.”_

_She didn’t tie me up; she was hopeful. She’s happy that she was right. She starts crying harder, letting out loud sobs._

_“Why are you crying baby girl?” I ask her._

_“I’m just so happy daddy.”_

_“Come here,” I stand and spread my arms open. “I don’t like it when my baby girl cries.”_

_She hesitates at first, but she comes into my embrace. As I stroke her back, I feel the blackness creep up over me as if I’m growing a new skin. My head pounds as nubs begin to sprout from my head, forming into antlers._

_I see us in the mirror at the other end of the room, Annabelle and the wendigo. This is who I am. My heart pounds. I take her head and twist it, breaking her neck. Her body falls to the floor; and I take the pocketknife from her right pants pocket and use it to cut her open. The cut is jagged, through the abdomen. I take the liver and kidneys and place them into the empty container where she had kept the cookies. These are for Hannibal, a gift for him and only him to savor._

_This is my design._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break. The school year began and I got engaged, but I will be updating. Though less frequently now than before. 
> 
> Song for the chapter: Kings of Leon--Sex on Fire 
> 
> Next chapter: Bedelia and Clarice, with a smattering of Will and Hannibal. Maybe a sprinkle of Jack somewhere in there too.

Chapter 15

The door of their home opens with a creek, the sound of wet footsteps echoing throughout the foyer. Hannibal moves at the sent of blood mixed with the citrusy musk of Will. He smiles to himself, standing from the chaise and placing his book on the end table. He straightens his suit, making sure to smooth out the wrinkle in his pants.

Will walks into the library, eyes almost tinged with red. He’s transformed into a deadly beast, mind muddled with animalistic desire. He places the container of organs he’s carried all this way on the desk, not looking at Hannibal. He wants to, but he can’t. Hannibal hasn’t earned his gaze, yet.

“What did it feel like, killing her?” Hannibal asks, licking his bottom lip lasciviously. He’s genuinely curious; its as if Hannibal can almost feel the murder on Will’s fingertips.

“You know how it feels,” Will spits, resentment tinging his words. “You wanted this, Hannibal. More than anything. You love the feeling of control over my head. I’m a puppet with strings on my limbs, and you’re the puppeteer. How will you make me dance, next?”

“I’m not controlling you. I am guiding you through your rebirth as your true self, Will. You resent me for this?” Hannibal asks, his back turned to Will.

“I resent myself.”

“Do you regret killing her?”

Will shakes his head, laughing sickly. “How long have you known that my encephalitis returned? You talk about me trusting you, as if I’m wrong not to. I tell you my secrets, I feed you my fears. They must be tastier than flesh to you. Does my suffering satiate you?”

“Quite the opposite, darling.” Hannibal walks to Will, his steps cautious. “Don’t you see how I care for you?”

Will turns, his face wrought with danger. “Is this how you _care_?” He takes Hannibal by the arms, his face edging closer. “You wanted to tell me for a time. You mulled it over in your head, as if the thoughts were wine swirling in a glass. But you become intoxicated by the thought of watching me devolve. You are _proud_. Of this.” He bends closer to Hannibal, his lips brushing against Hannibal’s ears. “Do you remember when we first met, and I avoided your eyes? Its because I see you; I see the demon hiding behind the curtain. I see every unsavory thought you have when you’re awake and when you’re dreaming. Don’t you know? I know you better than you know yourself. You don’t know how to care.”

Hannibal face breaks, contorting from the pain. “I may have hurt you Will, but you cannot mistake that for lacking in care. The encephalitis will flare up occasionally. I have already procured a bottle of antivirals for treatment whenever you feel the symptoms coming on again.” He places a small kiss on his cheek. “I only let this happen because I knew you would love every moment of it.”

Will swallows, a shiver running down his spine. “I did,” he whispers, slamming Hannibal onto the desk. He leans over him and licks the back of Hannibal’s neck slowly. His skin goosebumps at the contact. “I imagined feeding every bit of her to you.”

Will undoes Hannibal’s belt and watches his pants fall to the ground, revealing his naked strongly muscled legs. Will’s own pants discarded, he takes out his cock and strokes it as he watches Hannibal’s ass cheeks greedily. “I want you on your hands and knees on the floor,” Will commands. Hannibal moves slowly, and stares at Will as he lowers himself to the floor. “You’re not allowed to make a sound.”

Will kneels behind Hannibal, taking the lube out of the desk drawer. His cock glistens in the dim light of the library. He takes his hand and slaps Hannibal’s ass once, Hannibal letting out a grunt in surprise. “Ah, what did I say about making a sound?”

Hannibal remains quiet, his cock rock hard.

“Good,” Will growls, his voice low. He pushes into Hannibal, his cock twitching at the warmth. “You feel so good. So full with my cock.” He thrusts into Hannibal and takes the blade out of his jacket pocket. “You want to belong to me, don’t you? You want me to accept you, fully. Take you as mine. Won’t it make you happy? Answer me.”

“Y-yes,” Hannibal moans out in pleasure. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted from you Will.”

Will takes his knife as he thrusts and craves his name onto Hannibal’s lower back, watching the blood drip from the letters. “So, you’ll never forget who you belong to,” Will says, as he comes into Hannibal.

He takes himself out of Hannibal, and Hannibal waits for Will to continue pleasuring him for his release.

“Sit down on the floor, baby,” Will commands. He takes the Tupperware from the desk and opens it, the scent of blood filling the air. He climbs into Hannibal’s lap and takes a piece of liver out of the container. “This is all for you. Every bite.” He places the liver in Hannibal’s mouth, watching him closely. Piece by piece, the container becomes empty. Hannibal takes Will’s bloody hand and licks his fingers clean, staring deep into Will’s eyes. With his other hand, Will begins to stroke Hannibal’s cock.

“You’re too good for me,” Hannibal breathes. The taste of the raw organs on his tongue is divine.

“Lay back on the ground,” Will commands.

He presses kisses down Hannibal’s abdomen, and then takes his erect cock into his hand. Will licks the back of it from the bottom to the top, eliciting a moan from Hannibal. “You’ll only come when I let you,” Will says whilst pressing a kiss on the tip. “Any earlier and I’ll have to punish you later.”

He sucks Hannibal until Hannibal is squirming on the ground. Just as he groans in defeat, Will removes his lips from Hannibal. “Ah—you’re so bad at listening to instructions. Perhaps I won’t let you cum today.” Will moves away from Hannibal.

“You can be quite cruel, love.” Hannibal crawls to Will on his hands and knees. “You love being so cruel. But I’m quite finished letting you enjoy this position of control.” Hannibal pulls Will to him, bring his ass against his cock. “I will enjoy you fully.”

Hannibal thrusts into Will and Will lets out a small moan in defeat. “Did you truly think I’d allow you to be in control if I wasn’t?” Hannibal asks as he pumps into Will, faster and faster.

Will becomes lost in the sensation, allowing himself to cum a second time as Hannibal comes into him.

“You always give me what I want, in the end,” Hannibal breathes as he falls on top of Will, both men laying on the floor.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Eilish--Copycat

Chapter 16

Bedelia walks briskly through the streets of Toronto, smelling the cinnamon scent of the Christmastime air. Her breath is a deadly shade of white, and it rolls around her face as a thick mask. Gripping her black faux-fur coat tightly, she stalks forward. She knows that soon Hannibal will have a shipment. They followed the same pattern every month. The shipment would be sent from Russia on the 5th and come to Canada on the 10th. Two weeks into customs, and it would arrive in a warehouse on the outskirts of Toronto. After speaking with the delivery driver one morning, promising a date over a cup of coffee, he revealed to her that her “ex-husband” came every 27th of the month to pick up his latest deliveries from the warehouse. Normally they would ship it to a home, but he had paid the workers a fair sum in order to bend the rules a bit. Hannibal was clever; a quality many serial killers lacked. Hannibal had been caught originally because he wanted to be caught—now that he had Will, Hannibal would not be caught again. He would do everything to make sure of that.

“Hello Elias,” Bedelia says to the blonde man at the security desk.

“I had a nice time the other evening. Maybe we should repeat it?” he asks her hopefully. He’s younger than her, maybe in his mid-twenties. Had she been rid of Hannibal, Bedelia would have enjoyed a game of cat and mouse with Elias. A brief tryst to color her mid-life. It would fizzle away after a few weeks, and she would leave him a broken mess. But he would grow stronger after it. Bedelia sees the scenario in front of her and smiles to herself.

“If I say no, would that change our agreement?” she asks him in a low whisper.

He laughs to himself, disappointed. “It isn’t easy getting your ex-husband back, and I’m not quite sure that surprising him here would be the best thing to do.” He bites his lip and looks away from her. “I never did stand a chance, did I?”

She sighs and cocks her head to the side. “You’ll find a nice girl who will treat you much better than I can.”

“The storage unit where we keep his items is B27,” he pauses. “He’ll be here in maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Well then, Elias, perhaps you should go on your break.” She comes in closer to him and presses a soft kiss on his left cheek.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make myself scarce,” he blushes.

The click of Bedelia’s heels echoes through the warehouse as she walks to towards the ‘B’ section in the back, and she waits carefully at the corner of the row where Hannibal would be standing shortly. Her hands shake in anticipation and she pulls out a cigarette from her coat pocket. She puts it to her lips, but decides against lighting it and returns it to its place in her pocket with a deep sigh.

****

Hannibal adjusts his hair, looking at the rearview mirror in his car. He notices that the warehouse is more still than usual. He looks to his left and his right before exiting the car. He knows something is different; feels it in his bones. And yet, he walks into the storage area, his Italian leather shoes hitting the metal floor with a soft click. He inhales the scent of Coco Channel Mademoiselle; a scent he had smelled for many years. He smiles to himself knowingly—the game had finally begun.

_I pick up the phone, a familiar number gracing my screen. “Privet Igore,” I say in Russian. I’m not expecting a call, though I know Igor often calls to inform me of delays and damages._

_He coughs on the other end, swearing loudly. “She knows,” Igor says weakly._

_“Who knows?”_

_“The blonde woman, your wife.” Igor responds, breathing heavily._

_“Have you been injured?” I ask, picking up a pencil from the desk. I inspect its tip carefully and furrow my brows at its dullness._

_“Da—Yes,” Igor replies, coughing more violently. It's as if I can smell the blood through the telephone, and hunger nips at my stomach in response. It has been a while since I've had Russian boar._

_“Thank you, Igor,” I reply as I hang up the phone with a wicked smile on my lips. As I stare out in the room, my imagination projects Igor bleeding out on a dirty floor and regret not being there to harvest some choice pieces for dinner. I had kept several Russian dishes on file for such an occasion, and now they would not be put into proper use._

_I think of the oysters in Florence, having gone to waste on Bedelia. And yet, she had eaten every bite almost eagerly. As if she couldn’t wait to be mine, fully. Ah yes, that must be it. She’s a fool for pursuing me. She is certainly saving me some effort in extracting from the United States. I do have a promise to keep. I’ll have to make another plate for dinner. I think perhaps Schubert would fit the dinner nicely._

Hannibal pulls the key to the lock out of his pocket and rubs his finger over it carefully. He remains calm, giving himself an unsuspecting air. The lock unlocks with a click and he hears the sound of stiletto heels click on the floor as he removes the lock.

“How nice it is when old friends reunite,” Hannibal utters, his expression unchanged from its permanent placidity.

“You do not keep friends, Hannibal. Perhaps pawns would be a better word, though I know you are wary of metaphors to chess.” She responds, the _excitement_ of the game contorted on her face. For the first time in years, her heart pounds with a familiar euphoric dread.

“They are far too common, Bedelia.” Hannibal turns to see her, more lines on her face than he had remembered. He smells the scent of cigarettes lingering on her skin, though she is meters away from him. It complements the desperate femininity of the Coco Channel with the feeble self-medication and self-destruction that allures Hannibal. “Have you missed me?”

“I’m not sure that I can say I’ve missed you.” Bedelia closes her eyes, relishing the moment as she succumbs to the man before her.

_Bedelia removes her fur coat, letting it drop to the floor slowly in a heap. Her naked body is before Hannibal, and she stares at him with a volatile fire. She walks closer to Hannibal, her hips swaying as touches her breasts softly. “Would you feast on me, as you’ve feasted on Will?” she asks, her skin dotted with goosebumps._

Bedelia opens her eyes, Hannibal facing her meters away. “You haven’t changed,” she says.

“I do apologize, but I cannot say the same for you. What a shame it is that the depths of depravity have become a comfortable home for you. Tell me Bedelia, do you have sexual fantasies about me nightly? Or perhaps you sit in your post-modern beige home in its plainness and in its place remember our tryst in Florence.”

Bedelia raises a gun at Hannibal, her hands shaking. “No, I imagine killing you nightly. The FBI and public may believe that you’re dead, but I know that even falling off of a cliff would not end you. That is too simple and boring of a death for Hannibal Lecter.”

Hannibal laughs, “We’ll have none of that now.” Hannibal locks the storage unit, leaving it for another day. He walks to Bedelia, and she cocks the gun as he nears her. “You always were a terrible liar.”

“No, Hannibal. This is the end for you.”

“You cannot survive without me, though. You need our little game to liven your existence. You’re nothing without it.” He takes the gun from her hand. “Perhaps, I’ll let you kill me later. Would you like that?” He guides her out of the warehouse, a hand on the small of her back. “But first, I must have you dinner. We have to catch up.”

Bedelia swallows as she watches Hannibal place her gun in his pocket. “You’re going to eat me.”

“You can’t wait,” Hannibal responds.

****

Clarice sits in her rental car, her gloves hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as she watches the entrance of the warehouse carefully. Bedelia exits, a man next to her. She squints to focus the image and sees Hannibal Lecter. Her hands shake at the steering wheel, excitement coursing through her veins at the opportunity.

_I sit at the table, the one I’ve seen in the pictures of Hannibal Lecter’s home. The dark wood table brings attention to the elegant white plate that holds a delicate appetizer. Chamber music plays softly in the background as I sit across from Doctor Lecter. He takes the knife and fork into his hands, and cuts into the meat with such grace that its almost as if two ballet dancers are dancing on the plate._

_“Tell me everything,” Clarice says to him. “Tell me your every thought.”_

She puts the key into the ignition and trails behind Hannibal’s car carefully, ignoring the buzzing of her phone.

****

Jack sighs as his phone call goes to the answering machine. He throws the phone onto his desk and leans back in his chair, turning his attention to the walls of his office that are plastered with photos of Buffalo Bill’s victims. With Will Graham gone, this case is almost unsolvable. There is no pattern to the murders, no clear motive. The familiar memory of the Chesapeake Ripper’s mystery and difficult nips at Jack.

He remembers the large yellow envelope sitting on his desk, “REDEMPTION” written on it in big black letters. Six victims thus far; overweight women that have been starved for two weeks and then skinned. The similarities between the women end there. The connection is too loose, and Jack wonders why the skin? Does he feel inhuman? Did he lack his mother’s love? That’s too common—no this serial killer is more complex. The motive is atypical.

“Fuck,” he swears, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Eilish--bury a friend
> 
> Pumpkin Spice Latte is back => It's Spooky Season => Rewatch Hannibal => Up the horror meter on Anew

Chapter 16

Will sits across from Bedelia, a tumbler of whiskey with a few cubes of ice in his hand and a glass of merlot in hers. Hannibal stands behind Bedelia, a hand on her chair. The air is heavy with tension; Will can almost hear the pounding of Bedelia’s heart. He sees the organ, red and pumping in his imagination. How he would love to reach into her chest and give it a gruesome squeeze. She pulls out a cigarette and leans back in her chair, keeping her legs crossed and setting her drink in her lap. He notices the twitch of her pinky finger, making little waves in her drink. Hannibal looks at Will, the corner of his lip raised in a half-smirk. He’s satisfied with himself; he’s brought home a new toy for Will to play with.

“You’re not working with Jack,” Will says, a clear statement—not a question. He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting it sit in his mouth for a moment so he can feel its sweet fire on his tongue. “You don’t want him to catch us.”

“What good would it do if Jack caught you?” Bedelia replies, her voice low.

“Two killers on the loose, Hannibal Lecter escaped with his _lover_.” Will’s word choice is deliberate. He wants to see how Bedelia ticks. A sharp inhale—ah there it is. “ _Delightful_ ,” Will muses to himself. 

“It was bound to happen; I believe. They’re saying you and Hannibal are dead, after having jumped off the cliff. No one’s looking for you.” She changes topic, not wanting to linger on the relationship between the two men.

Hannibal knows it’s a lie, he can feel it on her words—she was never a good liar.

“ _Broken hearted—she’s not the last of Bluebeard’s wives.”_ Will sees it in her eyes. The wetness she keeps from rolling over her eyelids, the permanent lines around her mouth from the lonely frown she wears when no one is looking at her. “But they didn’t fine the bodies.”

“No, they did not…” She trails off, looking up at Hannibal who stands behind her.

“Naturally,” Hannibal cuts in, “this reunion calls for a nice dinner among friends.”

“Bedelia didn’t come here in friendship,” Will counters, looking at Hannibal teasingly. _“May I be rude?”_ Will asks Hannibal with his eyes, a plea.

“You don’t consider me a friend, Will?” Bedelia asks.

The tension in the air grows thicker. “I don’t believe that I do. Perhaps I considered you an ear to listen to my words, maybe even a comfort for our shared experiences with Hannibal Lecter. But friendship is too sweet a term for what we are. Enemies?” Will smiles before standing to pour himself another ounce of whiskey in his cup, plinking in a few more ice cubes.

“Will, it is not kind to call our dinner guest an enemy.” Hannibal walks to Will, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder. Whispering into Will’s ear, “She’s a delicious pig for slaughter, don’t you agree?”

“Have you ever had a victim so willing?” Will whispers back, before turning away from Hannibal and returning to his chair.

“When did the obsession with Hannibal begin? The terror festered inside of you; there was a time when you would have escaped. If you could have. But you realized that no matter where you ran, Hannibal always seemed to follow. Not physically per say. Perhaps you were selecting a wine to pairing with your meal, and you would remember him in passing. And then more frequently, you would wake to the sound of your shower—but it couldn’t be on, could it? And yet, there Hannibal was in your mind’s eye washing off the blood, waiting to take you away. You thought of Florence whenever you closed your eyes. Did you sleep with him then? You must have, of course. Don’t worry Bedelia; I’m not jealous. It was so long ago, after all. A shared night, one you wouldn’t forget. He consumed you, mentally and physically. But there’s only one way remaining now. You can’t stand it. That he didn’t take you when he escaped. That he didn’t come back for you, a last tango between the two of you.”

The words sting on Bedelia’s skin like hot wax being poured over her. She’s frozen, unsure of how to respond. “And are you any better? Hannibal had slithered into you mind, leaving a few choice seeds in your mind. And as they sprouted and grew, you felt as if you were coming undone from the person you had constructed yourself to be. And I say constructed, because there were so much empathy that you couldn’t possibly become yourself first—so you chose who you thought you should be. And then Hannibal showed you, underneath, who you are. So empathetic that even murder became the most justified act you could perform. And now you cannot escape who you’ve become? Do you hate it as much as you love it?” Bedelia has a cruelty in her voice; she’s a viper waiting to sink her teeth in at the right moment. Her kindness to Will before had been for her benefit, and now there was no benefit in reserving her true thoughts.

Guilt drips into Will’s mind, but he pushes it down. “No matter what you say, it isn’t me who’s becoming dinner tonight, Bedelia.” He stands and takes Bedelia’s hand into his own. “I’m sure Hannibal would want to apologize for the lack of preparation, but we’ll remedy that soon.”

The trio walk off together, further into the home, walking down the winding steps to the basement. The wendigo follows closely behind, its inky blackness leaving sprawls of black on whatever it touches. 

****

Clarice walks around the perimeter of the home, slowly and without making a sound. They had chosen a good location, hours away from Toronto and the only home for miles. The forest outside is vast, and she sees this as disadvantageous to her. She steps closer to the entrance of the home, realizing that the door had been left unlocked. She checks for her rifle, safely tucked away beneath her coat.

But she doesn’t check for the phone, left in her car hidden behind the trees in the forest. It buzzes on the car seat, heard by no one save for the stag with its large antlers passing by the car.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arctic Monkeys--505  
> Next Chapter: The dinner scene from the post credits of the season 3 finale.

Chapter 18

The basement has a chill reminiscent to a morgue, its walls a cool stone grey and floors a dark hardwood. Hannibal leads Will and Bedelia through the maze of halls, removing a set of keys from his suit jacket pocket. The trio is quiet. The keys jingle quietly in his hand as he unlocks the first door, revealing a small room with a reading area and shelf filled with various bottles of wine. At the other end of the room, directly across from where they stand is another door, heavier and with more locks. Hannibal unlocks each lock with a calm precision, the top lock first, then the bottom, followed by the middle lock, and then finally removes the latch over the middle lock. It’s done swiftly, without error; yet somehow, it seems as if Hannibal had never practiced the motions before, a perfect first try.

The door swings open silently, revealing a room with an operating table in the middle that is surround by two IV bag poles and a table containing a tray with several medical instruments perfectly polished. Bedelia lets out a small gasp upon the realization of where she is; of what she had gotten herself into. She must ask herself, _“Do I really want this?”_

“Having second thoughts?” Hannibal asks her, amusement on his lips. He picks up a scalpel from the table and examines its tip.

Will watches Hannibal intently, wondering just how he will proceed. Will immerses himself in the energy oozing off of Hannibal like a thick, black haze seeping into the pores of Will’s skin.

_I take Bedelia into the room, buried deep in the home where no one will hear her screams. She’s not screaming now, of course. She wants this; she’s always wanted this—from the moment she realized what I am. Victim became synonymous to her obsession with me; she must be my victim in order to remain close._

_Do I want her to be my victim, still? I ask myself. I’m accustomed to the expression of terror that envelops my victims’ faces when they realize what is happening. I consider sparing her pain, allowing her a bit of morphine to take off the edge, but I know that the drug would ruin the flavor of the meat._

_I take my scalpel in my hand, to test Bedelia. Ah there it, the slightest gasp. I delight in it; a trill of a melody floating in the air. Does she believe that this will change my mind; that her willingness will cause me to rethink who she is to me? But I could never forget her rudeness and betrayal; I could never forget how she disappointed me. Instead of embracing the knowledge of what she is capable of, she had done everything in her power to make herself forget. She didn’t appreciate my role as her teacher._

Will is in Hannibal’s shoes, the line between them blurring further. Will takes Bedelia by the shoulder, “Months ago you told me that this would be your fate. You said it without even knowing the implication of your words.” Will is tense; he had never gone this far into the process of being Hannibal Lecter, but he must find out what the next tick of the clock will bring, and so the pendulum swings in Will's mind.

Bedelia’s face becomes streaked with tears. “I don’t want this, Hannibal,” she finally admits. “I only wanted to see you again.”

“Don’t be preposterous, Bedelia. You know exactly what you are doing. Of course, you could have lived a bit longer if you had stayed in Baltimore, but it doesn’t change the fact that all possible paths you could have taken would converge to this same point, an event that must always occur.”

She lets Will lead her to the table, but she takes a scalpel in her hand as she passes by it. Hannibal pretends to not notice, but the minute ring of the medical instrument being taken away from its place is not lost on Hannibal. He’s intrigued by this move; on an impulse he lets her believe that she has a modicum of control over his design.

“Did you believe that I didn’t know you were in love with him the entire time we had talked? Wouldn’t you love to be in my shoes, except you always knew you couldn’t fill them,” Will tells her.

Leaning against the operating table, Bedelia takes the scalpel and presses it ever so carefully against Will’s neck, next to the thick pulsating nerve on the left. Will smiles wide.

“It must be unbearable knowing that what you thought you possessed is taken by another,” Hannibal says, “We see it every day in society, an ex-wife jealous of her ex-husband's new lover. Is this how it feels to you Bedelia?”

Bedelia doesn't address this, instead she begins, “You worm your way into your _toys_ until they cannot live without you. You scrape away at their connections until you become the only person they can trust. And then, you are satisfied—for a time. It’s a staccato moment followed by a wary rest. Boredom. You change your mind; the toy was fun while it lasted; now you must rid yourself of it.” Bedelia looks at Will, “When will you rid yourself of Will?” she asks, looking at Will’s neck.

“I would advise you to put down the scalpel, Bedelia,” Hannibal tells her, moving closer to her. “Instead of focusing on introspection, you are looking elsewhere to put the blame. Our outer world only ignites what is already present on the inside. You are now not any different from what you had been before. I let you see yourself, Bedelia. This is who you have always been. Are you disappointed?”

“No, you are,” she spits with disgust covering her voice. Her hands tremble as she puts the scalpel down. She watches it glimmer against the light in the room, before staring deep into Hannibal’s eyes. “I can’t live without the torment, but I’d rather lose myself while losing you, Hannibal,” she says as she lunges at him.

But Will acts fast, taking the syringe from the table. He’s seen it before; it’s the same sedative that Hannibal had used in order to insert Abigail’s ear down his throat. The scalpel falls to the floor with a harsh metallic clang, Bedelia laying limp next to it.

“We’ll have to thoroughly wash the meat before our next meal, Will. We don’t want dirt in the dish,” Hannibal says.

Will picks up Bedelia from the floor, his mind buzzing in excitement. He places her on the operating table. “You’re disappointed,” Will says suddenly.

“Yes, I had hoped for more of a chase. The excitement of the hunt,” Hannibal replies, taking the medical saw from a shelf on the far wall of the room. It is an older style saw, not powered by electricity. It requires two to handle, and he hands Will the other end. “Together?” he asks, love in his voice. On either side of Bedelia, two Wendigos stand, moving the saw back and forth fervently across her leg.

****

Clarice shuts the door behind her, noticing the distinctly eerie silence of the home. She inhales the scent, a pleasant potpourri smell filling the air. She takes her first step, taking in the grandeur of the home. In front of her is a marble staircase contrasting the perfectly polished hardwood floor. The foyer is expansive, filled with elegant baroque paintings. A vase filled with calla lilies sits on an end table next to the staircase. Only the host is missing to take her coat.

She walks through the home carefully, going to the empty kitchen. She keeps her hand on her rifle as she walks, ready. Past the kitchen is the dining room, with a long table surrounded by a dozen chairs and a chandelier hanging above it. An old record player is on the other side of the room, begging to be put into use. Behind her is a large armoire, which she opens slowly. It is empty, its shelves stacked neatly on the left side of the armoire.

A door creaks on the other side of the home, and she enters the armoire, shutting its doors and sitting down within it. There’s a small crack through the doors, perhaps an eighth of an inch that brings in a sliver of light. She inhales sharply.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Eilish--bury a friend

Chapter 19

Bedelia wakes, her head pounding. Her vision focuses in on an elegant table setting, three plates set. She looks down at herself to see herself dressed in an evening dress, her cleavage exposed. Before her, the dark wood table shines in the low light of the room. Lit candles adorn the table and light the whole room. The setting is romantic, as if this evening is a passionate dinner for Will. She quickly recoils at the pain emanating from below her knee. She tells herself to move her leg, only to find that there is no lower half of her leg to move. She lets out a confused yelp.

“You won’t be in much need of that leg, Bedelia,” she hears Hannibal’s voice say from behind her. 

“Getting less creative, are we?” Bedelia asks scathingly. “Condemning me to the same treatment as Abel Gideon. You are an artist and yet this lacks a bit of…originality.”

“I’m saddened. I thought perhaps you would appreciate the treat I am offering you. Most of my canvases, as they are, don’t get to experience that artistic process as you will. This is the utmost honor, you see.” Hannibal smiles to himself, finally walking to the table in front of Bedelia, a silver tray in hand. In it is her leg, wrapped in leaves. "Though I have to say, I had baked his leg in clay. This dish is more suited to you." He places it on the table gently and removes a knife from his suit pocket. “A bit of fanfare,” he states. As he speaks, it occurs to him that there is something out of place in the room. His table setting is the picture of perfection, the room is lit divinely, and the music playing softly complements the tone of the evening. He sniffs the air ever so subtly, noticing a fragrance he’d never smelled in the home before. In his mind’s eye, he smiles to himself. _“How wonderful.”_

“Will I have to feed myself, or will you be spoon-feeding me my own leg?”

“I would suggest you use your hands and arms while you are still in possession of them. You might be regretting the missed opportunity later.”

“And so, will you devour me piece by piece, then? Let the process be as slow and agonizing as possible?”

Will comes into the room, dressed in a three-piece suit, though one less bold than Hannibal’s. It’s a plain charcoal grey with a cream-colored button down underneath. “Well that would have to depend on the taste of the meat this evening, now wouldn’t it? Perhaps it’s as bitter as you are externally,” he replies.

Hannibal gives Will a disapproving frown before cutting the ties off of the leaves, allowing the pieces to fall at the side of the meat. “Ah, I’m sure the meat will be tender and moist,” he announces with a bit of glee tinging his voice.

****

Clarice hugs her knees to her body, listening intently at the conversation. Her heart pounds at the suspense. She debates revealing herself and leaving the armoire, and yet the conversation outside is too tantalizing. She wants to here every word.

_“Is his dinner extravagant?”_ Clarice thinks to herself. _“I wonder the look on Bedelia face. Is she satisfied that Hannibal will finally consume her, or has the terror finally set in?”_

****

Will cuts into the meat carefully, watching Bedelia as she observes. “Don’t hesitate,” he tells her, “Hannibal’s meals never disappoint.”

“I’m sorry to say that I’ve become a vegetarian in the past few years, since we’ve last seen each other, Hannibal.”

“Perhaps I’ll convert you tonight, then.”

She takes a knife and fork into her hands, grasping them firmly. Out of spite, she cuts the meat without hesitation and places a piece in her mouth. “Too bad you only wished to taste me this way,” Bedelia says, “I do taste delicious.”

Will laughs, dipping his head back a bit. “How does it feel, being so close to the end?” Will asks her. “Do you look forward to it, finally being a piece in Hannibal’s collection?”

Bedelia bites her lip, thinking back to her time in Moscow. “I feel wonderful,” she replies as her mind wanders.

_I run out of the building, ignoring the biting cold that nips at my skin. I see a small brown-haired woman running down the street, darting between two buildings and I smile to myself. Jack had sent one of his pets, after all._

“It is too bad that you won’t be able to finish the book you’ve been writing secretly, Bedelia,” Hannibal begins, changing the conversation.

“Bluebeard’s Wife? Is that what you’re calling it?” Will chimes in, taking another bite. “You’ve truly outdone yourself, darling,” he says to Hannibal. 

“Perhaps I will live to tell the tale,” she suggests, taking another bite.

“The last person who’d been writing books about me hasn’t lived a very good life—a fate worse than death, I would assume.” Hannibal sips at his wine coyly.

“The Red Dragon hadn’t gone to the lengths I’d hoped,” Will fills in. “Though Frederick will be living the rest of his life burnt like a marshmallow.”

“And we both know that I wouldn’t consider consuming such garbage,” Hannibal finishes, setting his wine glass down. “Now, I have to apologize. I realize I’ve been terribly rude this evening.”

Will watches Hannibal for a moment, confused. And then, he knows. He turns to Bedelia, who looks at him mockingly.

Hannibal continues, “I must say I hadn’t expected another guest. So, I must apologize for not setting a fourth place at the table.” Hannibal stands from his seat and walks to the armoire. He holds his hand in front of the handle, letting the air grow thick with a poisonous suspense. He opens the door slowly. “In the future, dear, do knock before coming in through the front door.”

Clarice looks up at Hannibal, her eyes wide like a doe’s. “Jack sends his regards,” she chokes out.

“I wish he were here to join; it’s been too long since we’ve dined together.” He offers his hand to Clarice and helps her stand from the armoire. “I see you’ve come prepared,” he nods, looking at the gun in Clarice’s hand. “And yet, you’re not going to use it.”

Will blinks, his emotions consuming him as he watches Clarice stare at Hannibal—in admiration. “Jack’s pre-screening process failed again. And yet, what did he think? An ambitious FBI trainee, obsessed with the minds of serial killers and psychopaths—what else could you be but on the very same spectrum. Do you keep every photo of Hannibal’s art on your walls at home? Of course you do. To try and understand every calculation, every move. What does the angle of the arm say about what Hannibal thought of them? How were they rude? What had they done? They deserve it, you tell yourself. And you must know every detail down to the molecule, so that you can _feel_ Hannibal. But, you’re falling short. You want to understand more. And here comes Jack with the offer of a lifetime, a front row seat to the show.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: SYML--Fear of the Water

Chapter 20

A fourth plate adorns the table now across from Will’s. The table looks more complete now, with four plates matching the four chairs. Hannibal revels in the balance of the table setting; he’s finally contended with his dinner party.

“Have a seat—” Hannibal begins, but realizes he doesn’t know his guest’s name.

“Clarice,” she finishes. She sits down slowly, staring at the leg in the center of the table. “Your presentation is wonderful," she compliments. 

He smiles, “Thank you.”

Will watches Hannibal carefully, wondering. _“What will he do with Clarice?”_ And yet, Will can’t say that Hannibal _likes_ her. It’s something else; perhaps a kind of nostalgic longing? Will grips the edge of the table, his heart heavy in his chest. Had he transformed, only to be cast away?

Bedelia smiles slyly, watching Will become undone by the sight before him. “Has something new caught your eye, Hannibal?” she asks him as she takes her glass of wine from the table.

“I’m merely glad that we’ve been graced with the presence of a new guest. Tell me, Clarice, are you going to call Jack, or will you leave him sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for his phone to ring?” Hannibal resumes cutting the meat on his plate, taking a small bite.

“Which one is more fun?” Clarice asks him instead.

“While I can’t wait to see my old friend, I think it might be better to have Jack wait awhile. He can do with learning a bit of patience.”

“Hannibal, we cannot play this game. Whatever is in your head, it’s not good. I know—”

“What do you know Will? What’s going to happen next?” Hannibal looks at Will, gazes deep into his soul. He sees terror; Hannibal loves that look in Will’s eyes. It means that he still has a grip on him. Will can’t bear to lose him.

“It’s not what’s going to happen immediately, or even soon. Jack will come; Jack is coming after us and Clarice is a clear sign that he knows we’re still alive. Everyone else in the world might think we’re dead, but if Jack doesn’t then it doesn’t matter. Soon enough, more people will start thinking that we didn’t die that night we jumped from the cliffs. And then we’ll be on the run. Neither of us want that. You don’t want that, Hannibal. That’s not the kind of recognition you long for.”

“But you’re missing something, Will,” Bedelia cuts in. “Hannibal has gotten bored playing house with you. It’s time to start a new chapter, a little more exiting this time. Isn’t that right, Hannibal?”

“I would count this as a missed opportunity, if we were to simply do away with Clarice.” He turns back to Clarice, “I hope you’re hungry.” He goes to the center of the table and cuts away a piece of the leg for Clarice before sitting back down.

He watches her intently, his eyes urging her to take a bite. And yet, she hesitates. Clarice had longed to meet Hannibal Lecter in the flesh for so long, but she hadn’t ever thought about what would happen if she ever did. She had never eaten human flesh before, and her thoughts urge her to leave the meat on the plate and not take a single bite. But when she sees Hannibal eyes, she knows that she must. The first bite is difficult, but she can’t ignore the fact that the meat is sumptuous and almost melts on her tongue. She takes another soon after, this time looking at Bedelia as she does so.

****

Hannibal rolls Bedelia into the sitting room as Will and Clarice follow behind. This room is different from the others, more cavernous and filled with baroque portraits. Hannibal has a tray ready of digestifs for after the dinner. He presents Bedelia with the tray first, and then Clarice and Will.

“Was your journey here difficult, Clarice?” Hannibal asks.

She begins to tell the story, the one where Jack selects her like he had selected Miriam Lass. The one where she follows Bedelia to Moscow and then to Canada. But she doesn’t tell them of the before, that missing piece that is most important to Hannibal. And so, Hannibal’s attention is diverted to Will.

_Hannibal stands across Will on top of a frozen lake. Will’s back is turned to Hannibal. The white of his breath floats around him, like a shroud. Will is ice fishing; the closer Hannibal walks to Will, the farther Will becomes. He calls after Will, but Will doesn’t turn._

_The ice begins to crack beneath Hannibal feet, and he falls in the water. Only then does he see Will’s face, looking from above like a wicked god. “Did you regret eating her?” Will asks him, laughing._

_Hannibal sinks to the bottom of the lake, only to come to the surface of a lake elsewhere. He’s floating slowly towards the shore. His wet clothes stick to his skin as he leaves the lake and enters the thick woods. With ever step he takes, time reverses. He’s younger and younger, until he’s a boy. His long-fingered hands are youthful now. He sees a light through the trees, and he walks towards it. His childhood home is larger than he remembers it. He walks in through the front door and hears a girl’s innocent laughter from within._

_“Micha!” he calls._

_Footsteps follow, their sound growing louder. A short brown-haired girl runs towards Hannibal and hugs him closely._

_“Brolis!” she shouts excitedly. Brother._

_Hannibal feels a warmth spread through his heart. Seconds pass, and he feels Micha’s arms let go of him._

_Hannibal is older now, at his present age. He looks down to see Mischa standing in front of him, her skin green and purple from decay. He grabs her in despair, but her body comes apart and the limbs fall to the floor._

_He falls to his knees, sobbing. His hands become full with a bowl of stew. He eats the stew, savoring every bite._

_Mischa’s decapitated head opens its eyes and stares at Hannibal. “Do I taste delicious, brother?” it asks him._

_The house disappears; the forest around it disappears. And Hannibal is left alone, in a pool of black. Will stands in front of him. “Will you do the same with me?”_

_“No!” he shouts, but Will walks away despite the answer._

****

Hannibal’s attention snaps back to the room. Bedelia watches Hannibal and smiles. “What will you do with Will?” she asks him. “Will he be condemned to the same fate as me?”

Hannibal stands from his chair and approaches Bedelia. He takes her head into his hands and stares deep into her eyes. “You’ve grown rather rude over the years,” he tells her before he snaps her neck.

He turns to Clarice and Will, “I must apologize, but I had to rid us of that pest.” Hannibal sits back in his chair and returns to his wine.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurora: Murder Song (5,4,3,2,1)

Chapter 21

Will snaps his eyes open, seeing Hannibal sitting across from him in the room. Bedelia sits in her wheelchair, observing the both of them while Clarice stands, unsure of herself. Will shakes his head, going in and out of Hannibal’s mind. The sound of the pendulum swinging rings in his ears like a morbid melody. He stares at his fingers which shake. _“Do I want to kill Bedelia now, or is it Hannibal that wants to kill her?,”_ Will asks himself. _“What do I want?”_ But, Will doesn’t know what he wants. He is all too aware of what Hannibal wants; what his end goal is. And Will knows what the Will who has merged with Hannibal wants. But what does Will, himself, uninfluenced, want? That distinction tears away at Will’s self-identity.

The vision was so clear, Hannibal standing and twisting her neck with an animalistic hunger, like that of a wolf finally pouncing on its prey. And so, Will determines, that in a way he too wants Bedelia gone. And while, he would rather see Hannibal snap her neck now, he knows that this is not how Hannibal designs. Hannibal likes the slow burn; he likes to watch the fear boil up in his victim’s eyes. And now, Bedelia is too self-satisfied for Hannibal’s liking. He wants to see her unwind, Will knows that. But moreover, Hannibal doesn’t want to kill Bedelia himself. No, this is a present reserved for someone else.

And so, instead of Bedelia laying limp in her wheelchair, Hannibal condemns her to a worse fate. “Why would I spend three years in prison waiting, only to murder Will?” he asks Bedelia.

“Because you are confused; love is not an emotion that you’ve felt before Hannibal. Do you think this is love?”

Clarice jumps in as Hannibal opens his mouth, “And who are you to talk about love, Bedelia? You came here on some obsession—some love—of Hannibal Lecter. And you thought, maybe, in the back of your mind that if you wanted this to truly end, that Jack’s little pet would come and save you in the end. You didn’t think of any other alternative. That maybe, just maybe, I appreciate Hannibal’s vision.”

And so Bedelia sighs deep into herself, “I’ve accepted that my time in this life has a limit, and that limit is approaching. I’ve accepted that whatever feelings I have toward Hannibal are unhealthy. But do you accept your own flaws? You’re an empty vase, waiting to be filled.”

_The room is spinning for Will, faster and faster. Bedelia's words ring in Will's ears, over and over. "An empty vase, waiting to be filled." Hannibal and Bedelia disappear. Only he and Clarice stand across from each other._

_“Hello, Will,” Clarice tells him, smiling wickedly. She holds a dagger in her hand._

_He sees behind her eyes, deep through the veins of her brain, down through her memories. Children laughing, brother and sister. Easy, fun times. But they end. A stop gap. A lonely girl, playing alone. A wilting bouquet of flowers next to a picture of a young boy above a fireplace. But the picture doesn’t replace him. It’s a frozen image, unmoving, unhuman._

_“You lost your brother.” It’s not a question, Will is too direct for questions._

_Clarice doesn’t respond but stares deep into his eyes. She moves closer to him, leaning her forehead against his._

_“You were lonely. You didn’t want to play with the other kids, so you picked up other hobbies. You collected unusual things. And then you became obsessed with killers. Did someone murder your brother? You couldn’t understand the mindset—how could someone kill? But the farther you reached into the mind of a killer, the more you realized you did understand. You had the rage, the peculiarity. And then you came across one profile, Hannibal Lecter. Something was different about him. You admire him. And then you see him… Does he look like how you would imagine your brother to look like as an adult? Perhaps he’s older, twice the age your brother would be. But you can’t shake the fact that there’s something so familiar about the face, the eyes… Yes. There it is. And so, you must make Hannibal love you. Love you as your brother would have loved you.”_

_Clarice shoves the dagger through Will's chest, twisting. He bleeds out in front of her, collapsing to his knees. Clarice is no longer there with him, and instead Hannibal is on his knees across from Will. He pulls the dagger out of Will's chest. "Don't go," he tells Will, "You can't go." As Will's eyes droop, Hannibal places the dagger into Will's hand. "You can't go without me," Hannibal tells him, tears falling from his eyes. Heartbreak coats his face as Will watches him weakly. His eyes plead for Will to take him as his final victim. Will stabs him through the chest, and they both fall onto the inky black floor. Clarice appears, sitting on top of their corpses, licking the blood off the dagger._

Will pulls himself out of his mind palace. He ignores Clarice, choosing to deal with her later. He stands from his seat and takes the handles of Bedelia’s wheelchair. “Hannibal?” he calls to him, looking back as he wheels Bedelia out of the room.

“Would you mind staying here for just a moment?” he asks Clarice politely.

She smiles at him, longingly. “It’s no problem.”

Hannibal follows after Will, observing his every movement. They go to guest room. Will wheels Bedelia next to the bed. “Would you like to get in the bed yourself, or do you want my help?”

Bedelia pushes herself up from the chair and maneuvers herself onto the bed. “I believe we’re passed the time where we help each other.” Bedelia had anticipated that this act would last longer, that she would perhaps spend several days with them before they take her life. But she knows that Hannibal's now fully lost interest in her, only keeping his promise to murder her. Her heart heaves at this realization.

“Do you want me to do it, or Clarice?” Will asks Hannibal. “You had always wanted this for me, before. You imagined it many times, maybe even dreamed about it. A perfect ending for Bedelia, and a new beginning for us.” Will is hurt; he knows that his place as the center of Hannibal's attention is threatened. But, he knows that Hannibal will not let him go. Will is invaluable to him. 

“I only want you to do what you’re willing, Will.” Ever-polite, Hannibal refuses him a direct answer. He notices Bedelia's heartbreak; she is uninteresting to him. Their story would have ended in Florence, had it not been for Will's arrival. 

“No, Hannibal. What is your design?” Will wants to kill Bedelia; he's pictured it countless times. But, he has always known that Hannibal must be the artist. This victim is not Will's; it is Hannibal's. 

Hannibal removes a syringe from his coat pocket and hands it to Will. “In the left arm,” he commands.

Will does as he says, “It will leave Bedelia conscious, but immobilize her. Is there anything else you’d like to say, before you go, Bedelia?” Hannibal asks her, walking closer to the bed. His head hovers distantly above hers.

“How much are you willing to lose, following your impulses?” Bedelia asks Hannibal as Will inserts the syringe into her arm.

"I was rather hoping you would say adieu," Hannibal replies followed by a pause, “It should only take a few moments,” Hannibal says to Will as he places his arm around him. Hannibal takes the syringe from Will and replaces it with a scalpel. “You must go slow, slicing through the abdominal cavity.”

Will nods, as he slices through Bedelia’s clothes first and the moves them aside. Her eyes follow their movements and she lets out a muffled scream before her vocal chords lose full control. Her bare, naked body is revealed to them. He puts the tip of the scalpel in the center of her ribcage and cuts downward. Hannibal instructs Will’s every move, occasionally pressing a kiss to Will’s cheek, encouraging Will.

It occurs to Hannibal that Will had never been more precious to him. His heart swells at the sight of Will removing the organ’s from Bedelia’s abdomen carefully, placing them inside the pre-prepared container Hannibal had placed on the nightstand before dinner.

At the end, Hannibal leans into Will, taking the scalpel from his hand. “You did wonderfully, Will,” he whispers into his ear.

Will holds his blood stained hands in front of him, and smiles. He feels adored, fulfilling Hannibal’s design. “It’s a shame we can’t pose her.”

“Not for the public. But if you would like, we may pose her as Botticelli’s Pallas in the reading room, for our own appreciation.” Hannibal draws Will in for a deep kiss, the scalpel dropping from his hand and ringing out on the floor.

_Behind Will, the wendigo creeps out, its claws gripping his shoulders. It whispers sweet words of praise into Will’s ears. Will becomes stained in black, slowly morphing into the creature which sinks its claws into him._


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unlikely Candidates-- Novocaine

Chapter 22

Hannibal lets Will return to the bedroom while he goes to find Clarice sitting in the sitting room. She’s silently reading _Dracula_ , holding the novel in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Hannibal is satisfied with the scene, projecting his image of a grown Mischa over Clarice’s body. The features are similar, hauntingly so. The short brown hair, short and ectomorphic stature. She’s thin but strong, and an air of intelligence floats about her. He stands in front of her, noting the chocolate brown of her eyes—the exact color he remembers Mischa’s being. He holds back the pain that floods his memory palace, leaking from the room that leads to all memories pertaining to Mischa.

_He stands in a long corridor of his memory palace before walks. He turns left, passing several doors before his steps become echoed with a splash. Below him, the hallway is flooding. The water flows out from an old door—the very same door that adorned his childhood home. The water flows out faster and faster, until Hannibal is drowning. He opens his mouth to scream under the water._

“I wouldn’t usually allow my guests to wait alone, but the circumstances were extenuating. I do hope you understand.”

She smiles back it him, “It’s not trouble at all.”

Hannibal takes her hand, “I think my study would be better for this conversation.” He leads her to the other end of the room where he takes a knob through the bookshelf and turns it. The door peels back with the bookshelf, revealing a smaller space. The study is adorned with a Victorian era desk and red velvet chair. Hannibal switches the light on, and motions for Clarice to sit.

“Are you missing Uncle Jack at all?” He asks her, leaning back into the chair.

“Direct,” she quips. “I can’t say that I am.”

“Do I disappoint you?” Hannibal then asks her.

She shakes her head, laughing. “What is there to be disappointed about?”

“You’ve admired me for so long, haven’t you?”

“It’s no different than the religious admiring God, is it not?” Clarice asks back.

Hannibal laughs. “Do you think God would disappoint them?”

“Maybe overwhelm would be a better term.” She takes a small bronze figurine from his desk and examines it in her hand. It’s a horse, but there’s something special about—she can’t quite place it.

“Do I overwhelm you, then?” He bites his tongue with his teeth and presses the switch underneath his desk. The light flickers on and off, on and off.

“In a good way.” She places the horse back on his desk.

“My sister loved horses,” Hannibal tells her. “She always wanted to ride them, even in the midst of winter when it was too cold. You love horses too?” The question is formulated carefully, a suggestion to implant into her psyche. Likes and dislikes; he begins there. It’s the perfect image.

She nods, following the cues he gives her with his body. Mirroring. “My brother loved too,” she responds.

“He is no longer with you?” Hannibal takes the question as the perfect missing piece to his puzzle. A brother without a sister, and a sister without a brother.

“Sometimes I feel like he’s right next to me, lately,” she responds with a smile.

They sit across from each other, the conversation falling back and forth for several hours. Hannibal flickers the light, on and off, on and off. He takes periodic breaks, fetching tea for Clarice. He carefully ensures that the psychedelic mushrooms are ground into small pieces so that she could not perceptibly tell the tea is made from anything other than leaves and flowers.

****

When Hannibal returns to the bedroom, it’s late. Will waits for him, presenting Hannibal with a cellphone. “I couldn’t help but take a look outside while you were gone,” Will tells him. “She left this for you.”

Hannibal takes the cellphone and places it in the drawer next to the bed. “This is an opportunity I could never have imaged for us, Will,” Hannibal tells him.

“What are you planning?” Will moves aside to let Hannibal sit next to him in the bed.

Hannibal presses a kiss against Will’s lips, deepening it quickly. “I’ll show you later in the week,” he mumbles as he leaves a trail of kisses against Will’s neck.

“Does it feel so good to play God?” Will asks him.

“I don’t play God, Will. I only use all powers I have as a human. We are made to echo what God has, after all. We create and destroy, simultaneously.”

“Are you creating or destroying?” Will asks as Hannibal climbs on top of him and removes Will’s pants.

“Right now, I’m creating pleasure.” Hannibal leans down and nibbles on Will’s lip, drawing a bit of blood. Will’s cock presses against Hannibal’s as it hardens.

“I’m being serious.”

“And I’m only not serious in the bedroom, darling,” Hannibal responds with a laugh.

Hannibal rides Will, eliciting moans from the man underneath him. Will dips his head back at the sweet sensation. Hannibal is as all bad things are; tempting and delicious. Every thrust of Hannibal’s cock inside of Will leaves Will wanting more.

Hannibal takes his hand and strokes Will’s cock as he pumps inside of him. “You’re a picture of beauty. How lucky I am to have you,” Hannibal whispers.

“And my skin turns to wrinkles and eyes become yellow and veiny?” Will asks.

“I’ll appreciate the portrait time has painted on your skin, then,” Hannibal responds. “You will age finer than wine, love.” Hannibal comes into Will, imagining the future. He sees the image of them murdering together, posing corpses together. Will comes seconds after Hannibal.

They lay next to each other, breathing heavily. “Clarice sees you as her older brother,” Will mutters into Hannibal’s neck. “You already know this. Do you see her as Mischa, too?”

Hannibal nods, playing with one of Will’s stray curls. “A true doppelganger.”

“Will you eat her too, then?” Will asks him, “Like you ate Mischa?”

_The shroud falls from reality leaving me at the edge of the cliff. I leave Hannibal standing in blood, the body of the Dragon at his feet. I walk on and on, until the edge. I look down to see the toiling water. Hannibal calls for me, but I jump anyway. Hannibal runs after, jumping with me. He takes my hand in his own, and we fall through the air. But we never reach the water. Instead we circle round and round, until we become one._

_And I look at my hands as I fall, and they are Hannibal’s. I am Hannibal Lecter; the dark liquid cyanide of my blood burns through my veins. I feel the anguish toiling inside. I see Mischa falling above me then; she reaches out but can never reach me._

“Must we share everything?” Hannibal asks Will. These words bring Will from the vision.

Will hears the hooves of the stag walking behind him; he’s forgotten to take his anti-virals again. Its nose nudges against Will’s legs. “You would ask me to share everything with you.”

“And yet you don’t,” Hannibal responds as he begins to spoon Will. “So, I will forgive you if you forgive me.”

Will laughs. The manipulation never ends, and yet he can’t live without it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALT J--Tessellate

Chapter 23

When Will wakes Hannibal is still sleeping in bed, and so he leaves the bed without making a sound. He shuffles his feet against the floorboards, moving to take the clothes he’d laid out on the chair next to the nightstand and leaves the room. He feels overwhelmed, nauseated. A deep seeded disgust wraps around his stomach like a clawed beast and squeezes. His fingers vibrate with conviction, as the chilly ghost-voice of Hannibal Lecter whispers into his ear, _“Do it.”_

He shuts the door behind him, making sure it only leaves the smallest click resounding in the air. He dresses himself mechanically in the bathroom, putting on a pair of black dress trousers, a dark purple button-down and cream-colored bowtie. He straightens it carefully and stairs at himself in the mirror, blank eyes greeting him cruelly. He leaves his hair a curled nest on top of his head and his short scruff unshaven on his face. This look suits him the most; formal juxtaposed against informal. It’s the gruffness adding character to the smoothness of the ensemble that embodies his personality, a reflection of his brash truth and lack of sugar coating, against the sweet and perfect exterior.

He leaves their home like this, an ethereal beast on the prowl. He enters Hannibal’s car and inserts the key into the ignition, relishing in the roar of the engine as it turns on. As Will drives, he stares at his hands which become coated in blood thick and bubbling with its freshness; he wishes he could lick the sweet liquid from his palms to nourish himself. He drives into town; it’s early in the morning when few are out. But it’s better this way, when the sun has just broken over the horizon. The scene would look more spectacular in the glimmer of dawn.

He stops at the edge of the forest, right before the town entrance. He parks the car there—it’s better to leave it at a distance—and he walks into town. He wears no coat; in this state the cold doesn’t bother him. Instead, he walks powerfully and without hesitation. He stops into the sweetshop where the middle-aged, raven haired man works. Will had seen the look in his eyes before, when he had gone into town on Hannibal’s request to pick up a pound of chocolate for their dessert.

He’d known by staring in those viciously forest colored eyes that the man was little more than a pig for slaughter. And so, Will let him live, long enough to forget Will’s face. Will let him become comfortable with the feeling of comfort. No one suspected, of course not, that the owner of the sweet shop was a heinous child molester. No one suspected that every child who walked into the store was sweeter to him than any item he sold from his counter. This is what Will told himself, that he would let Frances McGill believe for a while that no one had figured him out. That the sweat on his forehead and nervousness when he looked at adult females but the perversion in his eyes when he looked at children did not give him away. It was a look that no one would notice because no one was looking. Except for Will, who saw every emotion on every person’s face no matter what he wanted to pay attention to. The whole world vibrated with secrets, and Will knew them all intimately.

He enters the shop, delightfully unlocked, and locks it behind him so no one would hear the click of the lock. He breathes out once and walks toward the counter, waiting. When Frances walks into the room from the back, Will doesn’t give him time to scream. He removes the vocalchords first.

****

Hannibal sees the images plastered on his laptop screen and he smiles to himself, his heart bursting with adoration. He looks over to Will fondly, who sits reading on the couch. Hannibal brings the laptop with him as he walks over to Will and sits down next to him, wrapping his arm around Will’s shoulder.

Frances is Saturn, and in his hands is a marzipan molded child who he devours. It is a perfect likeness of Saturn Devouring his Son by Rubens. In blood, on the glass counter in bloodied writing the phrase, “I TOOK THEM ALL, ALL THE CHILDREN” is written and drips down the glass onto the floor. The public knows who he is now, and this is the purest justice that Will had ever hoped for. 

“It’s sublime Will,” Hannibal tells him.

“I knew you would appreciate it,” Will replies. Will nestles in to Hannibal’s shoulder and lets out a sigh.

“It’s a pity Clarice couldn’t enjoy this with us, dear,” Hannibal says as he presses a kiss atop Will’s head.

“I’d almost forgotten about her. Where are you keeping her now?” Will asks him, setting his book aside and taking the laptop from Hannibal.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Hannibal tells him. “Keeping some of the mystery prevents you from getting bored of me,” he jokes.

Will stares at his hands, and he sees Hannibal’s instead. With every passing moment, he feels himself morphing. Some days this pleases him, and others it terrifies him to his core. “I never could,” Will replies, disguising the unease in the pit of his stomach.

****

In his office, Jack stares at the pictures of the corpses. Overweight girls with flaps of skin missing stare back at him. “What kind of fucked up killer are you?” Jack asks out loud. It’s times like these that he misses Will. He misses that mind that could see beyond the photo and into the moving particles of time. He could reconstruct their past and make them move from a point backwards and forwards, manipulating them however he would like. But he’s lost Will. And now, he’s worried that he’s lost Clarice too.

He calls her again, but he knows that there will be no answer on the phone. Like with Miriam Lass, all he is left with is the curdled scream of terror and begging for help that he plays over and over again. He thinks maybe he’ll hear something in the background, but the recording is impeccable. There is no little crumb of evidence that could point him in a direction.

He’s more alone than ever now, sitting in his office with piled up papers on his desk and whiskey in the drawer to comfort him in the middle of the shift when he realizes the depth of his loneliness everyday.

He knows he must choose one to hunt—Clarice or Buffalo Bill. But the longer both cases draw out, the more he realizes that he can’t pick either because to him, both are unsolvable mysteries that prick at his nerves like long, sharp needles.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Eillish--Hostage

Chapter 24

Days prior. 

_Precisely five nights after Clarice had arrived at the Lecter-Graham home, she had begun to realize certain changes in herself. When she awoke, she felt a sensation of confusion fall over her like a cold shower. She would lose herself in moments; time would stand still and in the echoes of an experience she’d channel some memory. It would be a memory she never knew she had, one that had dug itself out of the filing system of her mind and burst open at her feet. She remembers a castle, grey and old, but most importantly larger than life. Its halls were cold, but she never felt cold in them while her family was there. She remembers Lithuanian phrases, small sentences that ignite joy in her heart._

_But this is not who she is, this person in this time. She is not the little girl running through the corridors with excitement. She is not the little girl who runs into the forest nightly to share secrets with her brother near the fire he made. She realizes that she is not Mischa Lecter, though some days she wakes up feeling like she might be._

_Other mornings, she questions whether she is Clarice Starling. Had that part of her really existed, or was this a fabrication too? The contradicting memories clash in her mind, neither fitting in with the other. She cries on the fifth morning, when she is unsure of who to be when she wakes. Perhaps she even feels like a nobody. A person-less body that floats around the Lecter-Graham home, some waiting to be filled by something, anything. And Hannibal stuffs her full nightly with conversations muddled by wine. And when she wakes, she’s a bit different than the night before. Certainly, she couldn’t be the same, not when she would recall this alternate childhood._

_But then she thinks, perhaps in all of it, that it was Hannibal who she had lost as a brother, and not the brother she remembered before. Perhaps, she thinks, that she’s Mischa Lecter incarnate—returned rightfully back to her brother. She feels like a goddess whenever she thinks this, defying all logic and structures of the real world._

_But one night, as she sits across from Hannibal in his study, her mind finally halts. Hannibal’s lips move, but she hears nothing. She stares at those thin lips, and his face distorts. She watches as the skin from his face falls off in streams of flesh and blood, his muscled and bloody skull left behind._

_“Who are you?” Hannibal asks her, and the words echo in her ears. She covers her ears with her hands and begins to scream. But the scene before her turns a stark black, and the sounds of Hannibal saying her name fade away into a high-pitched ringing._

_She is awoken by Hannibal who strokes her hair softly, and he calls to her, “Mischa?” His eyes are soft and filled with longing. “Are you alright?” She is comforted to see that his face had returned to its normal state, no longer the gruesome sight it had been moments before._

_“I am not Mischa,” she responds._

_“Oh?” Hannibal echoes, “You are not?” He removes his hand from her shoulder, “Then indulge me this; who are you?” It’s almost as if he’s laughing, though he’s not. It’s behind the words he speaks and the tone in his voice; underneath it’s the joke that only Hannibal understands. “If you are not Mischa, who are you?”_

_Clarice shakes her head, “Clarice,” she insists. “Clarice Starling. I came her on the orders of Jack Crawford.”_

_“Tsk, tsk,” Hannibal begins, “You told me you came here to find your brother. You found him in me, didn’t you?”_

_She nods, “That’s true.”_

_“And if you’re my sister, then who are you other than Mischa Lecter?” Hannibal concludes for her._

_“That is not who I am.”_

_“I regret to inform you that you are not Clarice Starling. Because I don’t know anyone by that name. Either you are my sister, Mischa, and I am happy to take you into my home, or you are an imposter. Did you lie to me before?”_

_“I never said that I'm Mischa.”_

_“It’s a matter of ontology, and we have to clear this up. Do you agree that I am your brother?”_

_Clarice studies this question for a moment, searching for an answer. But she has no memory where Hannibal is not her brother. Plastered all over her mind is young Hannibal Lecter. She nods, “Yes.”_

_“Well then, who are you?”_

_But Clarice screams instead, and lunges at Hannibal. “I’m not Mischa.” She’s crying as her fists hit Hannibal’s chest._

_The force of her punches don't impact Hannibal, and he stands stiller than a statue, allowing her this release. But after a few moments pass, he is bored of the violence. Mischa would be more elegant that this, he knows. She would be a cunning viper, seducing and ingratiating herself with words before striking. She would never have an outburst like this. Hannibal decides that he's dissatisfied._

_“Shall I help you remember?” he offers as he takes her skull into his hands, and squeezes against the pressure points. She falls limp to the floor, and he takes her in his arms and carries her through the home, to the basement door and climbs down a set of stairs. He carries her through two hallways and yet another door, where he climbs down a second staircase into the second basement only he knows is a feature of the home._

_He places her on the bed of the fully furnished room. She stirs on the bed, waking slightly. “You’re very ill Mischa. I believe it’ll be for the better if you stay in your room, until I determine that you’re well again. And you wouldn’t argue with your dear brother, the doctor, would you?” He tells her before he leaves the room, locking the door. She’ll remember the words when she wakes fully, and perhaps these would stick in her mind._

_He returns to the library where he keeps his harpsichord and sits to play a melancholy melody. Will is out of the home today, which he doesn’t question. He allows him a certain degree of freedom, because he knows that Will would not betray him now. He notices every change in his lover, and he relishes in the growth of Will’s darker urges. His appetites develop every day, and Hannibal suppose that Will’s menu today would suit his own. He smiles at this, imagining Will naked on the bed with bits of human organ hors d’oeuvres placed across his bare abdomen. It’s an inviting image that arouses Hannibal, even more so because Hannibal would like Will’s torso clean, relishing in the diving flavor of Will’s skin._

_He pauses his melancholy piece and opens the binder of sheet music on the stand. Playing with his left hand, he notates with his right. The romantic melody floats in the air, filled with a heavy yearning. Hannibal thinks of Will as he writes, impatient for him to return home. Hannibal ignores the sound of the phone ringing in the background; focusing on it would interfere in writing his romantic ballad to Will. But in the back of his mind, he can’t help but think, “I must leave a message for Jack; I can’t let him worry too much.”_


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current Joys--A Different Age

Chapter 25

Across from Jack is a familiar face; he’s seen her many times over the years. Sometimes, he wonders what’s changed about her. She doesn’t smile anymore, not the way she used to. She should be happy, with her wife and child. And she is. That’s not what she’s unhappy with. Instead, it’s the untrusting look in her eye—you would have to know her intimately to know what caused it. She’s hardened by experience, because she was naïve before. She was touched by the cold, manipulating hands of Hannibal Lecter. Just as they all had been. But Alana—Alana was different. No one else had slept with Hannibal Lecter, no one else had gotten that close to him. They were intimate in a way that Alana should have noticed what lay beneath the outer human-like layer. But even with him inside of her, Alana didn’t know he was the devil. She asks herself if she could have seen, or if she was willfully blind back then. And then she thinks on Will, perhaps her greatest loss. Even greater than the loss of her own optimism. He was her friend; one she had truly cared for. And no matter her caution with him, no matter the care she provided; Will still slipped through the cracks and landed head-first into Hannibal’s web. When she sits across from Jack, Alana is reminded of this. Of her naiveté. Of her regrets. Of her failures. They are like baseball-sized hail that rains over her head, assaulting her. In this moment, she doesn’t want to be sitting across from Jack. She’d rather leave that life behind. And yet, she knows that he needs her. That’s why she came—because he needs her.

“How is your son?” Jack begins

Alana runs a hand over her legs and purses her lips, “He’s doing fine. He’ll be starting school soon. We’re hoping he’ll make a few friends…” she trails off, looking in the distance. She hopes he doesn’t turn out like Mason; it’s a constant itch under her skin. Then, she remembers that night, the night where she let Hannibal Lecter go. But it was an exchange that had to be made; a necessity that she wish hadn’t existed. She smiles then at Jack, pretending as if she hadn’t gotten lost in her thoughts. “I didn’t want to come here, Jack,” she tells him frankly. She focuses on honesty now; even if the other won’t like it. At least it keeps the playing field clear. It’s how she copes with the deceit that she’d been drenched in before.

Jack clears his throat, letting his eyes settle on her face. “I know. But who else can I turn to? We don’t have a good profiler. And you’re the only person I can trust, the only one I have left.” Jack removes a file from his desk drawer and pushes it towards her. “Perhaps this could use a fresh set of eyes, anyway. I can’t look at it anymore.”

“I’m not authorized to do this, Jack.” She pushes the file back toward him.

“I could change that. The bureau wouldn’t hesitate to take you on as a profiler. They know your expertise, your education. It would be an easy fix. But I need to know that you’ll take this on. And I can’t be sure unless you look at this file.” Jack pushes it back to her, more forcefully this time. “Please,” he asks, and it comes it softer than his other words.

She opens the file and the images of these naked girls, practically skinned alive stares back at her. They pictures are cold, gruesome. She shakes her head, her eyes growing wide. “Does he eat the skin?” Alana asks.

“Why is it a he?” he responds.

“It has to be. I can’t see a woman doing this to another woman. No, this is an obsession. The cuts aren’t surgical grade; there’s a gruesomeness about it. He’s not delicate, though he wants to be. Perhaps he’s not straight; perhaps he envies these girls. They have something he doesn’t. Something he gets through the skin. But, Jack, it’s not clear. There’s something missing.”

Jack leans back in his chair folding his arms. “That’s what I can’t figure out. We’ve dealt with too much cannibalism; I don’t want to think he’s eating them. But then I look at this; they’re all larger girls. He takes the choicest cuts. Like he’s making pork rinds. But then I think—am I projecting? Am I channeling Hannibal Lecter?”

“We know for certain that it’s not Hannibal. But it looks like someone he would know,” she laughs at this. “A former patient.” It’s a joke. She doesn’t take herself seriously, because she can’t imagine that Hannibal Lecter would still be actively affecting them all beyond the grave.

“But what if it is?” Jack thinks. “I’m serious. It would fit.”

“Not everything can be connected to Hannibal. He didn’t council every murderer that has a file with the FBI. It was just a joke, Jack.” As she talks, she shuffles through more pictures, “I wish I could see. But I can’t, not the way—”

“Not the way Will could, I know. But will you take this. As a favor for a friend?”

Alana nods.

****

The music blasts through the basement of the home, but it drowns out the other sounds. A man sits at a sewing machine, carefully taking two layers of a leather-like material threw the needles. The basement is filthy, disorganized. The light is dim, but even in the dim light you can see the thick layer of dust covering every inch of the room. At the sound of a doorbell, the sewing machine comes to a halt followed by loud footsteps. A tall, curly haired man stomps towards the stereo with frustration. He runs through a door and opens it, slamming it behind him. The screams start again then. He kneels down over the deep hole in the ground switching on the light over it.

“LET ME OUT!” the girl screams. “PLEASE!”

“LET ME OUT!” he screams back, louder. His face turns purple, like a putrid beet. “Let me out, let me out. No one can fucking hear you.” The doorbell rings, again, but he still ignores it. The sound of paws scrambling toward them grows louder. “Precious!” he squeals as the dog nudges his hand. “Do you want to give her your bone? Such a good girl.” He takes the bone from the dog’s mouth and throws it at the girl down below. “Maybe a little dinner will get you to shut up. Bon Appetit!” He shuts off the light and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

The doorbell rings again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He runs up to answer the door, leaving his dog to run around the basement.

****

Hannibal and Will walk through the Art Gallery of Ontario. Hannibal holds both of their coats in her arm, a true gentleman. They walk past the work of Rubens, viewing _Venus at the Mirror **.**_

“A true appreciator of gluttony,” Hannibal says.

“Because of the choice of subject?” Will asks, “No, it’s not that. It’s how behind the apparent vanity of the portrait, Rubens celebrates indulgence. Of truly experiencing fulfilment, no matter what it is.”

“You’ve grown observant as of late, dear Will. Are you trying to read my mind?”

Will looks away from the pictures but becomes lost by something on the floor. He shakes his head, “If it were that easy, we’d both be in different places.” Hannibal doesn’t miss the implication of his words.

Hannibal walks away from the portrait. He watches Will as he stares at a dropped newspaper on the floor. Hannibal picks it up and hands it to him. “Caught your interest?”

“BUFFALO BILL,” the paper reads in bold white letters. It’s a true crime paper, perhaps a bit less titillating then Freddie Lounds’ hyperbole and lies. The contents are graphic, displaying images that perhaps only the FBI should have access to. Will flips through them quickly. The pendulum swings in front of his eyes. It’s a dizzying sensation—more powerful than ever before.

The skin reappears on the victim’s thighs, the corpse livening. The scene reverses in time, Will dragging the victim away from the river. Back and back, until the meeting point. She’s blonde, curly hair. But most importantly, she’s larger, Rubenesque. _“I think she’ll be perfect,” his voice begins._

_“A week maybe, and you’ll be what I need. Another piece of the puzzle I’m trying to complete.”_

Will is snapped away from the vision by Hannibal who puts his hand on the small of Will’s back. “The museum’s about to close any second.” Hannibal tells him, focusing in on the magazine as well. “Do you like what you see?”

Will shakes his head, “He’s pitiful.” 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt Maeson--Hallucinogenics

Chapter 26

Hannibal takes Will down a set of stairs into the underground entrance of a building. Will doesn’t question Hannibal’s whims; some mornings Hannibal wakes up in an exceedingly good mood, and this was one such morning. And so, Hannibal takes Will on an excursion into one of his newer finds on the outskirts of Toronto. Hannibal is excited for this, having worn his black suit with burgundy button down and black tie. Over this, he wears his long black coat paired with fine Italian black leather shoes. Will thinks he looks handsome like this and wishes that he could enjoy him at home instead of being out in public.

Hannibal opens the creaking door and looks back to Will. “I hope you’ll enjoy this as much as I have,” he tells him.

Inside is a dimly lit room, soft classical-jazz fusion playing the background. A black-haired woman clad in a long black dress plays at the piano, a stage light illuminating her red fingertips striking the keys. She turns when the door opens, nodding at Hannibal. He’s been here many times before, most often when Will went fishing these past two weeks.

The take a seat at a booth on the left, and Hannibal slips a note to the waiter who comes to their table after they take the seats. Will gives him a quizitive look, but Hannibal waves the question away with his hand. Hannibal crosses his legs under the table, placing his hands on the table.

“Today is for rest and relaxation,” Hannibal tells Will.

“It’s a Saturday,” Will quips, “day of the sabbath. But I wouldn’t consider you a religious man.”

“I adhere to an alternative religion,” Hannibal says with a smile.

The waiter brings back a tea pot with two cups. He pours the tea for the two men, taking care to not spill a single drop.

“Tea?” Will asks him, amused. “I’m disappointed.”

Hannibal brings the cup up to his lips, the edge of the cup just pressing into their delicate pink softness. “I don’t think you will be,” he muses before taking a sip. His smile is infectious, even genuine. “Go on, it’s a delicious brew.” He watches will eagerly; it's important to him that Will enjoys pastimes like these. 

“Well, if you approve.” Will takes a sip, noting its distinct earthen flavor. He’s not so convinced, and mulls over the flavor on his tongue for a while. “Psychedelic mushrooms, really?”

“Paired with the music, I think it’s breathtaking. Just sit back and enjoy the finer things, Will.” Hannibal takes Will’s hand in his, and they listen to the music.

Will watches the woman at the piano, and his eyes draw in like a spotlight on her.

_The wendigo splits from Will’s body, a black goo ripping away between them as the wendigo approaches the piano player. It stalks forth, slowly, before taking a seat on the stage with the pianist. It begins to play a duet, the scene growing fluid._

_The image moves like a jiggly, viscous mixture, the wendigo and pianist morphing together until the wendigo consumes the pianist whole, blood on its clawed fingers leaving stains on the white keys. It’s horrifically gorgeous. The melody distorts into something wicked, haunted even, but breathtaking._

Will turns to Hannibal, who is in a state of bliss. He’d never seen Hannibal like this before. He wonders if Hannibal could become bored of this serenity. Will takes another sip of his tea.

****

Alana and Jack stand over the body of the corpse, a scalp-less head. Jack walks around the corpse, leaving Alana at its feet. He bends down, taking a gloved hand and examining the cut around its neck.

“It isn’t surgical precision,” he tells her.

“But he must have liked her hair. He only too the skin before. Why the hair now?” It baffles her, this break from pattern. “It’s different than before. Hair is valuable, coveted.”

“Why is this different?” Jack asks as he stands. “What’s the motive?”

Alana shakes her head, trying to feel what the killer had felt. But she is lost, and instead only feels pain and sorrow. “I’ve seen something like this before, from a lack of a mother’s love. Maybe he needs to connect with women somehow. Maybe a woman’s skin provides that for him?” Alana offers.

“It’s consistent with how he keeps and tortures them.” He moves aside as Zeller takes fiber samples from the corpse and ground around its body.

“I never thought I’d say it,” Zeller begins.

“We don’t need him,” Jack spits at him. He walks away from the corpse with fury and determination following him. “Pack the scene up and send everything to the lab. I want some results by this evening,” he shouts before entering his car and slamming the door behind him.

Price comes up to Alana from behind, “Someone’s a little cranky,” he says with a sing-song voice. “Lighten up. We always find the bad guys, one way or another.”

“I hope so,” Alana says, getting lost in the sight of the corpse. “I wouldn’t want to be on the streets with this guy out there.”

****

A disc is inserted into the boombox with a click, and the lid is shut over it quickly. In the mirror, Jame sees his reflection, and he straightens the hair on the top of his head, moving the real-human-hair-and-scalp wig slightly to the left. He smiles as the music starts to play and he starts dancing to it around the room. He lets himself feel the beat, his body filled with electricity. His movements are fluid, fierce. 

He forgets who he is in these moments, a feeling of freedom surging through him like rapture. It’s been a while since he’s danced liked this, but with his hair flowing to the beat of the song, he feels empowered.

But too soon the wig falls from his head with a thud onto the floor, and he’s left with the false reflection—of he who is not—staring back at him like an ugly, gruesome brute of a man. “FUCK” he screeches out, taking the hairbrush off of his bed and flinging it at the mirror, watching the shards fall onto the dresser and floor.

He runs out of the room, picking Precious up off of the floor and sitting down with a huff at his sewing machine. He pets Precious aggressively, the dog letting out a small whine. “You love mommy don’t you?” Jame asks her.

****

In the darkness of her room, Clarice sits with her head buried in her knees, hands wrapped around her legs. “Today is a Tuesday,” she begins. “No, wait. Thursday. Maybe not. Is it Friday?” she asks to no one in the room.

“It has to be Friday,” she answers her own question. “On Friday we go to the market to collect food. The old lady yells at us for being two kids out in the streets without our parents. She doesn’t know that we don’t have parents.”

Clarice lets out a sick laugh. “But Hannibal doesn’t respond to her. He promises she’ll get what she deserves after we leave. He’s a good big brother.”

The door opens with a click after she finishes the phrase. Hannibal enters, closing the door behind him. “Mischa,” he says. He brings a light with him, showing the messiness of the room. “You should clean up after yourself. This is getting out of hand.” But the smile on his face reveals that he thinks it’s cute. This is how he remembers her, as an untidy whirlwind.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so dark. I can't see the mess. Do you think I’ll be able to go out soon?” she asks him. Her voice is different now, a bit deeper than before. She has a slight accent—one she’d gained from talking to Hannibal.

“That depends. How are you feeling?” He sets the light down on the bed and sits across from her. His eyes are soft, pleading.

“Clearer, now. I remember more…” she trails off, looking to the left. “What day is it?”

“It’s Saturday evening now.” Hannibal removes something from his pocket and shows it to her, a small pastry wrapped carefully in a napkin.

She unwraps the napkin, “Apple cake,” she says with a smile. “Did you finally remember the recipe?” It's a traditional Lithuanian cake, one from their childhood.

“I did. I would have made it earlier for you, if I hadn’t lost the card. But I never forgot that it was your favorite. I’m so happy that you’re home, Mischa.”

He watches her as she takes a bite out of it. Her reaction to the taste is gleeful and innocent. She’s a ray of light in the darkness of the room. For a moment, he forgets about his past sadness as he observes her. “They took you from me,” he tells her. _They_ being the family she remembered before, the one that were Clarice's parents, not Mischa's. And she _is_ Mischa. 

She nods, a tear falling from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry I forgot,” she tells him. The words pierce her heart, and her hands fall from her face, the apple cake half eaten in them. "I didn't mean to forget." 

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll remember everything soon enough. You've remembered so much already. I’ll teach you Lithuanian again, once you’re better. It’ll be like when we were children.”

She nods at his words, “That’s all I want.”

Hannibal smooths her hair with his hand, “You can ask me a question, today.” They do this every time Hannibal comes to see her. To establish closeness, Hannibal lets her ask him a question and he does his best to answer with some morsel of truth, just enough so it seems personal but doesn’t reveal too much of his life. He couldn’t let her know of his other life, not just yet.

She thinks for a moment as she eats, before finally coming upon the question, “Do you have someone in your life?”

Hannibal nods, “You’ll be meeting him soon enough.”

“What his name?” she follows with quickly.

“That’s more than one question,” he fires back, amused. “But I’ll allow it for today. His name is Will. I’ve told him about you, and he's excited to meet you finally.”

She thinks about the name, the sound of it feeling familiar. Hannibal watches her then. This isn’t the first time she’s asked the question, and every time he covers the memories of her arrival to their home after their talk. He makes her forget of Bedelia, the dinner table, and Will. They must start fresh, her mind only filled with what is necessary from the past. This is the first time Clarice hadn’t reacted negatively to the name. Hannibal remembers before when she had asked, how she had been drawn into a state of anger and violence, pouncing at him for trying to brainwash her.

But now, Clarice sits, wholly convinced of her identity at Mischa Lecter. “We can all have dinner together tomorrow,” Hannibal tells her.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: TENDER--Outside
> 
> I feel such an urge to edit/re-write some of this fic. But I'm powering through until I finish it and then I'll do a rewrite.

Chapter 27

Will stands in front of the mirror in the morning, wearing a white t-shirt and pale blue boxers. His skin is covered in thick beads of sweet and it rolls down the back of his legs. He claws at the skin on his face in front of the mirror. It’s routine; you wake up, walk to the mirror, and stare back at yourself. It’s almost trite. And yet, this—this is not trite.

Will stands in front of the mirror and staring back at him is Hannibal Lecter.

He wishes he could smash the glass to pieces. “Hannibal?” will asks to the man staring back at him, fully clad in an elegant three-piece suit. But the reflection’s lips move as his do, Hannibal’s voice morphing over Will’s own, half-echoing, “Hannibal?”

Will’s mind flashes, conflicted. He stumbles out of the bathroom, breathing heavily. He gets dressed in an outfit he’d never pick for himself. Behind him the closet is filled with three-piece suits and Italian leather shoes—did he really choose to buy these for himself? But he selects one, delicately striped and navy blue with seafoam green undershirt and white tie. It’ll do nicely.

He travels downstairs, shaking his head for a moment, until he realizes that downstairs Hannibal is waiting for him.

_This is where the act begins, not a single emotion can be let out of place. I am Hannibal Lecter. I walk to the library first, before a cup of coffee or light reading. My piano sits there to greet me, an instrument which I can flood with emotion and elevate it to art. I let my fingers settle on the keys for a moment before my right hand plays a few delicate notes that sit wavering in the air before crashing down onto my skin. I let out a sigh._

Will’s fingers twitch over the keys, the notes still holding on faintly in the air. He wishes he could burst in the moment—as if he’d finally pushed his way back into his body after floating and watching Hannibal Lecter take it over for a time. He shakes his head. Laughing _, “No I’m not Hannibal Lecter.”_ And yet…

_I stand from the piano because my feet command me to enter my domain where I command beauty and decadence. Here in this kitchen I feel freed from mental burden. I become an expert, completely in control of every element. My hand grabs the knife as if it is an extension of myself. I revel in the shine of the blade and poke the tip of my index finger with it. The blood trickles out as a thick bead, reminding me of fragile mortality. I feel volatile as I lick the blood off of my finger, and electric pulse vibrating on my fingertip. With the taste of it, I’m ignited. I think back to my collection, the cards I’ve curated since coming here. Perhaps, I’ll visit an old acquaintance. It would be terribly rude to not keep up with social connections._

But Will, coming to himself again, lets the knife drop from his hand and onto the counter. The clang of the metal startles him. He looks up, seeing Hannibal watch him. The intrigue on Hannibal’s face is chilling as a smile spreads over his face.

“Are we feeling alright?” Hannibal asks him.

Will nods, looking to the left of the counter. He takes the newspaper into his hands, the latest Buffalo Bill crimes plastered on the front page. “I feel fine,” Will stammers, biting his tongue afterwards so too many words don’t escape his lips. _Control, this is what he exudes._

“Feeling a bit chaotic?” Hannibal asks him, knowing better.

“More like the eye of a hurricane,” Will bites back.

“So chaos surrounds you then.” Hannibal loves this verbal sparring between them. “Have I overwhelmed you?”

Will shakes his head, letting out a bitter laugh. “No. Not overwhelmed.”

“ _Overtaken,_ ”Will’s mind echoes.

“Is there anything I can do to ease the chaos that’s troubling you?” Hannibal asks him, stepping closer.

“I don’t think so,” Will responds coolly, setting the paper down.

****

Sitting idly in Jack’s hands is an assessment—not his own, god’s no, but Will’s. He remembers how he pushed him, yelling orders at his face. Jack wanted to exercise some power over Will, to let him know that ultimately, he is not the head of any investigation. He knows that Will felt like a tool, but that’s how Jack wanted Will to feel. A useful, necessary, powerful tool. And for a while, Jack believed that the good Will was doing would propel him forward, encourage him to stay on the side of catching criminals.

Had he really been so naïve?

He hates to admit it, but he remembers the sight of Will at every single crime scene he attended. He remembers how Will absolutely lost himself in the depths of another’s insanity, crawling into a deviant mind and calling it home for a while. And then he remembers Will’s time at the BHSC—he hadn’t hesitated to believe that he could end up there, not for even a second. He hadn’t fought to free him, not until he was absolutely convinced of Will’s innocence. And even then, Jack suspected that Will’s mind was damaged in some way. And yet, he continued to use him. He continued to push Will into Hannibal’s orbit, until Will finally called Hannibal’s mind home.

As Jack walks across the campus of the FBI training academy, he stumbles across Alana. He hadn’t expected to see her today.

She nods to him first, a sharp look on her face. “Hello, Jack,” she speaks like a snake, slyly with a hint of danger. It’s how she’s learned to talk, no longer friendly and warm.

“Hi…” he trails off, looking at the thick book in her hands. He reads the spine. “A student’s thesis?” he asks.

She rubs the spine with her thumb, “On Will Graham. I never would have thought they’d pop up, but since his death, students have begun to try and crack his mind.”

“And what are they saying?” Jack takes the book from her hands and opens it, flipping through the pages.

She cocks her head to the right, “Genius is a word that they use a lot. Tagged with troubled in front of it. Sometimes tormented. And psychopath—some inspiration from Tattle Crime, no doubt.” She sighs, “I picked it up, out of professional curiosity.”

“Professional curiosity… And what do you think Will is?” Jack asks her.

“Like all of us, prey to Hannibal.”

Jack leans into her as he hands the book back, “Hannibal Lecter is in love with Will Graham,” he whispers in her ear.

She gulps at the words, “You keep using the present tense, Jack. Too hard to accept that they’re dead?”

“They’re both alive and I know it.”

She takes the book from Jack’s had and watches him with worry on her face. She shakes her head, “No—how?”

“Would you help me hunt down Hannibal and Will if I told you?”

“I played that game once Jack—and look what it’s left.”

“You have Margot and your son,” he counters.

“I have a death threat over my head. And Hannibal always keeps his promises.” She starts to walk away from him, unable to continue the conversation.

Jack laughs. “Then you think he would die with a list of future dinners unfulfilled?”

He turns to look at her back.

“I have to think about this. I have a family now; it’s not so easy.” She stops for a moment think. “Are you really sure?”

“Yes, I am.”

****

Will works fiercely, trudging through the forest. He’d invited the carpet salesman over for dinner, who had tried to sell him and Hannibal a supposed Russian carpet for thousands of dollars. While money was no issue, the issue was that the carpet was a cheap Chinese imitation. Hannibal had found it rude, of course. But he bought the carpet with a smile, saying it would be of use to him, sometime soon.

Hannibal trails behind him by a few steps, not because he is slower, but because he wants to observe. The carpet salesman runs and screams in front of them. He screams for help in the middle of the day, though they no one will be on their property. The forest is too large and too thick; visitors never come unless invited.

Will looks back at Hannibal, who gives him a nod. With adrenaline coursing through their veins, Will grabs the man’s shoulder and pulls him back, causing him to fall over. Hannibal comes from behind and straddles the man on the ground.

The light of the day illuminates the beads of sweat running down Hannibal’s neck. Will finds him to be a beautiful predator. Will covers the man’s mouth as Hannibal takes a scalpel and makes an incision through his shirt. He pauses for a moment, watching the fear build in his eyes. The man’s muffled screams start strong but die off as he admits defeat and allows himself to drift into unconsciousness.

“I’d like the eyes too,” he tells Will.

Will nods, allowing Hannibal to work first, who removes the man's thymus and places it in a plastic bag. Will then removes the eyes, carefully. In this moment, Will is able to perform with surgical precision., imitating the very movements that Hannibal would make. Placing them in the bag as well.

“We’ll be having dinner with Mischa, tonight,” Hannibal tells Will as he stands from the body.

Taking the man’s throat into his hands, anger flowing through his veins. As he chokes the body, the man’s face becomes Jack’s. His hands grip tighter around the man’s neck. Will continues to choke him despite the sounds of the bones cracking from the pressure.

“Will,” Hannibal calls to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He lets go of the man, no longer Jack Crawford. “Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog,” he chokes out, looking out into the forest. “I want to leave a present.”

“Of course,” Hannibal tells him soothingly. “Anything you wish.”


	28. Chapter 28--End of Season 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highly recommend listening to: Aurora--Runaway

Chapter 28

The dinner table is set. In the middle of it rests a candelabra holding three candles; this is what illuminates the room. Faintly, in the background, Chopin’s nocturnes play. They’re the more cheerful ones, but still contain a poignancy that is fitting for the occasion. There was no true happiness with Hannibal Lecter.

He chooses gold rimed ivory plates and golden silverware; this is a time of celebration, let it all be coated in gold. After Hannibal finishes setting the wine glasses on the table, he steps back, admiring his work. Elegant in its simplicity, Hannibal is satisfied with the table setting. Not a single thing is out of place, the alignment perfectly symmetrical. He can’t wait to place the first course down in front of them.

Will comes from the kitchen into the dining room and walks up to Hannibal. He stares down at the table as well, letting a small smile spread across his face. “Wonderful,” he whispers.

Hannibal places a small kiss on the nape of Will’s neck before leaving the room. Hannibal imagines the night would continue like this, with small touches and teases. And at the end, once he feels that his family, his home, is complete, he will show Will how he has been fulfilled by him.

“Please, take a seat,” Hannibal calls out to Will as he disappears into the home.

Will does as instructed, sitting at the table. He takes a knife in his hand, marveling at its pristine condition. He knows that Hannibal had gotten the cutlery for this precise occasion. They would remain unused after this, a relic of this dinner.

When he hears footsteps approaching, he places the knife back in its place and turns around in his chair. Hannibal guides Clarice—no Mischa—into the room, her hand tucked into his arm carefully. She is dressed in a dark, maroon, velvet dress. It flatters her pale skin and brings out the red tinge of her chocolate brown eyes. Will notes the heels, couture, elegant black lace. Hannibal had picked every piece of the outfit for her; it was glaringly obvious. But it suited her somehow—if she were to be his sister, she would have to exude every bit of elegance Hannibal does too. She could be no lesser, less she tarnish the Lecter name. 

Will stands from the table to greet her. “Hello, Mischa,” he states kindly. It’s a pleasantry many years ago he would have done without. Hellos and goodbyes seeming too boring. But now he must live in a world of pleasantries and intricately formed plain conversations, so they don’t seem so plain. In other words, a kind of boring that would have made Will poke his eyes out with a fork had he had to sit over dinner and ask about the weather or how things are going at work. But he must seem normal for now, at the very least. Hannibal hadn’t tarnished his darling sister Mischa, just yet. That would come later, when he would try to educate her in _his_ philosophy, a god spreading religion among the ranks of mankind.

He saw Hannibal’s design like a neon sign glowing above him, flashing lights that blinded him.

_Trust is like a golden honey syrup. You taste it once, and it’s deliciously enticing. You give it another taste, and you realize you’ll have to keep coming back to the pot for more. And you begin to take more from the pot, because that’s the pot that contains the golden honey syrup you’ve come to love. The pot becomes everything to you. You don’t realize the pot is toxic, not until you’ve tasted trust too many times to realize it was trust given mistakenly._

Will smiles at Hannibal, seeing the lies he’d told himself flicker across his eyes. He sees that Hannibal has convinced himself that Clarice _is_ Mischa, that he had psychologically re-engineered his sister. Hannibal’s deluded himself into believing he could have something which had long disappeared from his life; a second chance that really was no chance at all.

“Hannibal’s told me a lot about you,” Will continues.

She smiles back, “I wish Hannibal had told me more about you, but I suppose that’s why we’re here. I’m so happy to finally meet you, Will,” she extends her hand out to him.

He shakes it firmly, all the while looking at her face to examine the inner depths of her thoughts. _“Did she really forget, or is she too smart for this game?”_

***

Hannibal sits at the end of the table with Clarice sitting across from Will. Their main course is served, _veal_ sweetbreads with oven roasted potatoes garnished with rosemary and olive oil. Will puts the first bite on his tongue, letting it melt in his mouth before he swallows. He closes his eyes, remembering the face of the man who this thymus had belonged to. He imagines the terror on his face just before he had turn to run—that indulgent moment of power over another’s life rocking Will to his core.

He feels nostalgia playing off of Hannibal’s aura—this is what Hannibal had been missing for so long. A dinner, a family. “You’ve out done yourself,” Will tells Hannibal.

“I hope my future meals don’t disappoint comparatively,” Hannibal smiles.

_A pause. Heavy._

_The music turns morbid, Chopin becomes heavy in the air like death and decay. Will smells rot from the food, only to look down on the plate and find Clarice’s head split open, brain revealed, sitting on top of it. He takes a bite, tears streaming down his face._

_“I need to stop,” he tells himself out loud._

_“But you can’t,” Clarice’s head tells him. “You have to eat me all over again, don’t you brother?”_

_Will looks at his own hands, which have become Hannibal’s. He turns to his right and realizes that Hannibal is no longer there, and across him Clarice’s headless body sits limply in the chair._

_He takes another bite, his hands shaking as he holds the cutlery in front of his mouth. And another bite, and another…_

_The pendulum swings violently back and forth, contorting the music into something sinister. Will screams as he covers his ears._

Not noticing Will’s detachment, Clarice clears up the silence, “How did you meet?”

A plain question, but more complicated than it should be.

“We were colleagues,” Hannibal begins.

“A long time ago,” Will adds, his voice devoid.

Hannibal laughs an empty laugh. “Not so long, though. It took a while for us to realize that we’d grown fond of each other.”

And this was true, but the omittance of their real story tasted sour on Will’s tongue. “Maybe it was more love-hate at first.” Will recalls the knife that Hannibal stabbed him with, slitting his abdomen. Revenge for betrayal, a moment of hatred, and yet love. Love because Hannibal could not kill him. Will’s heart pounds like a timpani drum in his chest.

“I was quite smitten with you,” Hannibal. “I chased you for a while. We were a game of cat and mouse; maybe we haven’t stopped playing even now.”

Will smiles, “I suppose you’d say it was fate that brought us together in the end?” This is a question to Hannibal, not a cute remark.

“Do you believe in fate, Will?”

“I believe in this life I couldn’t have avoided being with you, no matter how hard I tried to,” Will concludes. “Neither could you.”

Hannibal places his hand over Will’s as he turns to Clarice. “I suppose we could call it fate that I found you after all these years.”

But, Will is sickened as the fragilely constructed brother and sister bond plays out in front of him. They speak of Lithuania, of a past that was there for Hannibal a brooding specter, but a shroud of lies for Clarice that blinded her to her real past. Their talk makes Will’s stomach churn, the meal sitting unwell with him. He no longer feels like himself, sitting at this table.

_The pendulum swings violently in front of him, finally falling from midair and clanging on the ground. It’s cacophonous._

_Will watches as the scene in front of him dissolves, like wax melting off of corpses and a pile of blood and skin pooling on the floor. He takes a spot of it off of the table and licks it up—this is the taste of Hannibal Lecter in my mouth. Sweet sickness._

_I wish I could drink it up like a poison, he tells himself._

“I’m sorry,” Will stammers as he stands from the table. “I—I,” he begins to walk away clumsily. The steps quickly turn into running.

Hannibal stands after him, letting his chair fall to the floor. “You’ll have to excuse this, Mischa. I don’t know what's come over him,” he apologizes before leaving the room.

****

They run through the woods, Will leaving his coat behind in the home. But none of that matters. He had pre-planned this, his fake documents in his pocket. He’d placed them all in his suit jacket pocket. He hadn’t planned to leave during dinner, though. He had considered leaving in the middle of the night, leaving a note. He had left one in the drawer. He knows Hannibal will find it later. But what's the point now? 

He runs faster, not looking behind. He hears Hannibal’s feet crashing against the ground; it’s the sound of sorrow and loss. “Will!” Hannibal calls after him.

But Will’s feet turn to cement cinder blocks and he finds it difficult to keep running farther away from his pursuer. Hannibal catches up to him. Will’s heart is pounding in his chest, he feels dizzy, and yet—

He takes Hannibal and tackles him onto the ground. His hands wrap around Hannibal’s neck, just barely choking the man. _“If only I could,”_ Will thinks to himself. But Will’s hands pause as Will sees the tears falling from Hannibal’s eyes. He takes his hands away from Hannibal’s neck, holding them an inch above where they had once been.

“Why?” Hannibal asks him. “Why when we were on the brink of having everything?”

“I’m no longer myself, here. I don’t know who I am.”

“You are who you have always been,” Hannibal insists.

Will shakes his head, “No, I am a projection of Hannibal Lecter into an empty body…” Will looks away from Hannibal, deep into the forest. “I miss my dogs,” he chokes out gruffly. “I miss myself.”

“I am not preventing you to be who you are,” Hannibal tells him. He wrestles his hand out from under Will’s thigh. “I have always wanted the best for you.”

“I know,” Will says, “but it’s been in the terms of what you think is the best for me. And that doesn’t align with what actually is the best for me.”

“After all we’ve been through?” Hannibal asks him, placing his hand on Will’s cheek. “Would you actually leave this life we’ve built behind?”

“This life is a farce. You’re piecing together a family of dolls placing them in a dollhouse so you can play with them. But it’s not real. We’re _playthings_ ,” Will spits.

“Do you feel like I’ve made you my toy?”

Will shakes his head. “No. But Clarice—she’s not Mischa. You want her in your life in an impossible way, not realizing that you can’t make her Mischa. You’re trying to regain something that’s been fully lost. It cannot be done, Hannibal.”

Hannibal is silent at first, mulling over the words. “I, I know,” he concedes. “If it’s what you need, I could get rid of her, if that’s what it will take to have you stay by my side.”

“But, see—if she has no meaning to you, then. Do I have meaning to you? Maybe you got lost in the fantasy of love and family?”

“You mean the world to me. I spent three years in prison, waiting for you. You can’t believe…” Hannibal trails off. “That’s not what you’re afraid of, Will. It’s not my feelings, but yours.”

Will stands from Hannibal, and for a moment this is a sign of hope for Hannibal. He stands from the ground, following Will a few more steps into the forest.

“I wish it were so simple. But I’ve forgotten who I am; in choosing this life with you I’ve lost myself.” His heart heaves as he talks, “I need to leave. I need to have distance from you. Otherwise I will become you. And I don’t think the world can survive with two Hannibal Lecters lurking in the dark.”

Hannibal takes Will’s hand into his and strokes it with his thumb. “I can give you space here; leave for a few days. If that’s what you need.”

Will bites his lip, “No, Hannibal.”

“You won’t come back,” Hannibal states flatly. “If you leave now, you won’t want to return.”

“I’ll come back when I’ve found myself.”

“And what if you find that the Will who you think you are is incompatible with me?” Hannibal lets go of Will’s hand, letting it drop like a dead limb to Will’s side.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to eat me,” Will tells him, turning away. He doesn’t notice that behind him, Hannibal lets the knife that he had been holding in his hand drop to the ground, letting out a soft thud. Like his heart dropping into the pit of stomach, Hannibal’s heart lets out a soft, broken, thud. As Will stalks forward, he thinks back to the paper that had been haunting him—the name he’d come to associate with nostalgia. He looks forward as if the horizon is the eyes of the killer, Buffalo Bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how I would imagine season 4 ending with next season being a twist on Silence of the Lambs and some original content. Next two chapters will be BIG.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: Two Feet-Lost The Game  
> Also, another song: Hey Violet--Better By Myself

Chapter 29

The house is cold, the breath from Jack’s mouth turning white. It’s strange; he hadn’t turned the heat off. He moves to turn on the thermostat, looking left and right. Perhaps he’s hallucinating, he wonders; maybe he had turned the heat off after all. But something possesses him to place a hand on his holster as he walks around his home. He wasn’t afraid to shoot; he’d shot many times before.

The house seems untouched, everything in its place. He leaves the bedroom for last—searching the living room, kitchen, and bathroom in that order first. With every empty room, the tension grows in the air. He swears he could slice through it with a butter knife. He takes a deep breath, opening the door of the bedroom slowly.

He sees dark brown shoes first, and he removes the gun from his holster, gripping it with both of his hands before he enters the room. He’s startled to find Will sitting there in the chair, leaning forward head down with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, ice plinking as he swirls the cup absentmindedly. In his other hand is a gun pointed at the rug.

“Hello, Jack,” Will tells him dryly. Will is disheveled, his clothes having been worn for at least a few weeks. His curls cling to his forehead, his stubble grown out in an almost-beard. His blue eyes pierce through Jack's eyes like knives.

Jack cocks the gun. “You were supposed to be dead,” Jack spits. Looking at Will's eyes, Jack feels as if his soul is being poked by thousands of needles. He feels invaded, violated. He wishes he could force Will's mind out. 

A laugh, deep. Will finds the words truly amusing, coming from Jack. “Did you really think for a second that I’d be dead?” He takes a sip from his whiskey.

“Put down you gun!” Jack shouts at him. “Now.”

Will shakes his head, “No, this is insurance—for a _nice_ conversation. I’m just here to talk.”

Jack holds his gun up, pointing it at Will’s head. “That’s not how we’re going to fucking play, you got that?” Jack knocks the tumbler of whiskey out of Will’s hand and will watches the whiskey seep into the carpet.

“Well that’s a damn shame,” Will replies. 

****

_These are familiar footsteps on familiar ground. And yet, I feel like an alien here—a place I called home. The lights are off, so I peer in to see that no one’s home. No one’s been home for a while. Molly and Walter must have left. That’s good—I wouldn’t be able to look at them the same as before. That picture’s broken now. I can’t even pick up the glass pieces from the floor. I don’t even want to. I like that it’s broken. Wolf Trap Virginia feels changed._

_No, I shake my head. I feel changed._

_I wish I could go back and feel like this is home._

_I wish I felt like the mansion in Canada was home, too._

_I go to the porch, moving the doormat to the side to find the spare key. I blow away the dust before unlocking the door. Shoved under the door was a note, enveloped in dainty cream-colored paper. I open the letter as I walk past the threshold, the floorboards creaking under my feet. It could be music to nostalgic ears, but I think it’s horrendous. Inside of the envelope is a letter, familiar pen scrawled over the paper. My breath hitches as I read._

_My Dear Will,_

_Do you feel like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of Wolf Trap Virginia? I’ve been thinking about rebirth, recently. I had christened you in Canada, let you taste my blood, and watched you transform. Do you feel different now?_

_Do you remember how we rose from sea, as if hell had spit us back out? How beautiful it was to find you standing next to me, resilient. I wonder if we’ll survive this falling out, as well._

_Yours truly,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

_I crumple the letter in my hand, ready to pitch it off to some corner of my home. But I don’t let it out of my hand, and instead I look at this crumpled ball of bullshit and stuff it in my pocket. “Shit,” I shout out to an empty room._

****

“Where’s Hannibal?” Jack asks him firmly.

“He’s dead, Jack.”

“Cut the crap. I have every reason to call in a squadron and have you locked in prison for a very long time, Graham.”

Will smiles, amused. “For what? Getting rid of Dolarhyde? We made the plan together—and it got rid of two birds with one stone. Wasn’t that what you wanted? The Chesapeake Ripper and Red Dragon, both gone… Or maybe they’re still alive in your memory. Is that it, Jack?”

“They never found his body Will. He’s not dead. You and I both know it. Maybe you do more than I do. So where the fuck is he?” Jack kicks the glass in the direction of his bed, the glass shattering against the bedpost.

“He’s not here. As far as I know, Lecter’s been dead since I threw us both off that cliff. I wanted us to die—” Will says, his voice hollow. Tears threaten to fall from his eyelids, but he holds them back, biting his lip. 

“But you didn’t. What makes you think Doctor Lecter didn’t survive.” Jack’s eyes flash to the left quickly, checking the rustling of his curtains. He realizes he’d left the window open, but he walks to it anyway. He keeps the gun pointed at Will, as he closes the window.

“His wounds were more severe after we slayed the dragon. One good hit against a rock, and he’d be dead. I woke up on the shore two days later and laid low for a while. I didn’t want media attention or Freddie Lounds up my ass with her propaganda. I needed time, Jack.”

Jack watches Will carefully, knowing that Will knows more than he’s telling him. “Why did you come back then?”

“Buffalo Bill. You’re lead on the case, aren’t you?”

Jack sits on the bed, sighing. “Put down you’re gun and we’ll talk.”

“Pour me another glass of whiskey,” Will tells him, putting the gun on the floor beside him. “

****

Hannibal collapses into his chair when he returns to the home, alone. Clarice finds him in the living room, a husk. She approaches him carefully, squatting down underneath him. His hair sticks to his forehead, eyes devoid of feeling.

“Brother,” she asks him?

_I sit across the table from Will. We dine, drinking wine. The light is dim, almost romantic. I’d planned it to be like this for our verbal sparring. I love how he teases me with those lips._

_“Have I consumed you, Doctor Lecter?”_

_“Doctor Lecter?” I question, my lip twitching with the barest of smiles. “Why so impersonal?”_

_“There’s nothing impersonal about this,” Will counters, taking a sip of wine._

_“How does this feel?” I ask him. “Our little talks, now.”_

_“Good.” Will slices the tender meat with his knife, eyeing the rareness of it with hunger. The first bite is euphoria, I see it bursting on his face. “You didn’t answer the question,” he teases._

_“Completely,” I respond._

_I walk away from the dinner, leaving behind the dinner table. I move to the bedroom, opening the door to find Will standing there. He takes my face into his hands and his lips crash into mine. How sweet he tastes; I wish I could season my meals with the taste of him so I’d never have to taste anything else._

_“I’ve missed you,” he mumbles against my lips. “You spend too much time reading.” His hands move quickly to unbutton my shirt. “And not enough time fucking.”_

_“Such a dirty mouth,” I whisper into his ear. “Now what are we going to do about that?”_

_Even this scene dissolves, and I’m left in front of the home. Will is next to me._

_“A new beginning?” I ask him, looking at the expression of awe on his face._

_“To the rest of our lives together,” he finishes, taking my hand into his._

Hannibal takes Clarice’s hand into his hand feels the softness of it against his hand. “Who are you?” Hannibal asks her.

She smiles brightly at him. “Mischa, you know that.”

“No—who are you?”

“I already told you. What’s wrong?” she asks him. “I’ve never seen you like this, before. Where did Will go?”

“He’s gone.” Hannibal stands from the chair. “You can stop acting now. I’ve grown tired of this, Clarice,” he tells her as he leaves the room. “Would you like to finish dinner?”

Clarice follows him into the room, sitting to his left at the dinner table. “I was going to kill you,” she tells him. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Your timing is horrible, my dear. I would have liked to die at the start of dinner.” He takes the knife and fork into his hands and continues with the dinner.

Clarice takes his plate and throws it at the wall, the plate shattering. She takes the knife from her plate and lunges at him. They fall backwards onto the floor, her knife leaving a shallow cut on his cheek. The wrestle on the floor.

“I was never your sister!” Clarice shouts at him. “You’re sick.”

The wrestle on the floor, her knife edging closer to Hannibal throat. He holds the knife back, and it cuts into his hand. He groans at the pain as he overpowers her and flips them over. He throws the knife to the other end of the room, the knife’s blade scraping the floor as it comes to a stop.

He watches her eyes fill with terror as he stands from her. He helps her stand from the floor, offering him her hand. She’s taken aback by the action, frozen for a moment before she regains her strength and readies herself to attack him. But Hannibal reaches for Clarice’s neck, touching her pressure points, and she falls limp onto the ground with a thud.

“How unfortunate,” he says as he adjusts his suit.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Flora Cash--I Wasted You

Chapter 30

Canada: January 5th, 2020 

Hannibal watches his creation before him, a portrait that da Vinci himself would have envied. He wonders if he would ever be able to top this piece de resistance he crafted with his bare hands. The intimacy of terror beautifully expressed through even the smallest detail. He thinks back to how he had done it, settling into the comfort of his mind palace.

_Despite the chatter, music can be heard throughout the home. Hannibal mingles, an expert, floating effortlessly from person to person. He has mastered the art of hosting, and this part is one that beats them all. He’d passionately cooked every hors d’ oeuvres, poured his soul into every entrée, and bled his heart out into every desert. The food is sensational, earning him endless complements from his guests. They’re people from various places he’d met, two couples from the opera, several acquaintances from the doping café, and more from the arts museums. He’d memorized all of their names, etched their preferences into his mind, all so they could feel comfortable. He wants their blissful ignorance, now. He feeds off of it, that unknowing of what is to come. He smiles to himself; they do not know what they are eating. This tickles him endlessly._

_For now, they would feast. A last supper for the crowd. He feels like a god now, more than ever. Their life strings in his hands, he lightly tugs at each and every one. The clock was ticking. Half-way through the deserts, Hannibal leans back in his chair, taking a long sip of his wine. It was a bottle he had left for himself and Will, for one romantic evening following one of their kills. But he wouldn’t let such a fine wine go to waste, and so he drinks it now, savoring its delicate sweetness. As the guests chew their food like the disgusting hogs they are, Hannibal’s joy grows exponentially. Perfectly timed, at 6:30 in the evening, the first guest topples over into their plate. They fall like dominoes afterwards, one after the other, until all thirteen are face down in their food. This is when the fun part begins for Hannibal._

_First, he dresses each corpse in robes. He doesn’t take organs from these victims; he has no one to share them with now. He’d picked each piece carefully, only selecting the finest garments. He would spare no expense for this image. He poses them around the table, standing up. Hannibal works through the night, unable to rest. The prospect of his creation is too great._

Now Hannibal sits across from the table, looking at corpses of his dinner guests, a pig’s head covering each one’s head, displayed as The Last Supper. Hannibal drinks the final drops of his wine, his heart shattering upon the realization that Will was not here next to him. He wonders if Will had read his letter, and so he sets off to write another one. 

****

Canada: January 4th, 2020

Hannibal watches the pianist play in the doping café. He sips at cognac as he observes her fingers glide across the keys. The song she chooses to play strikes a chord with him; it’s as if his heartbreak had been transformed into a melody echoing now in his own ears. The loneliness absorbs him, a cold dark hole he cannot take himself out of. Before he’d called this place home, and now, it was a foreign land. He desperately wanted to rid himself of it. And yet he sits alone, at the bar. Watching.

When her set is done, she walks to the bar, empty except for Hannibal. She sits next to him, moving her hair away from her face before she begins, “Hello,” she tells him smoothly. She wears an elegant black dress, and Hannibal cannot deny her striking beauty. Her pale skin contrasting the darkness of her lipstick, the bright blueness of her eyes—he would have called her Aphrodite, before.

“Hannibal,” he says, stretching out his hand.

“A unique name,” she replies, her smile wide. Lust pools in her eyes like honey. “Katarina,” she tells him. “I’ve seen you here a few times. With…your lover?” It’s a bold question, but she is not hesitant to ask it.

“We’ve had a lover’s spat,” he replies. He knows this game; it’s the same as all the others. She expects him to be seduced by her. He decides to go along with it, though he doesn’t know how far.

“Perhaps I can help with some of the pain,” she offers, playing her hand over his. She strokes his thumb with her own, watching for some indication.

“What would you have in mind?” he asks.

“I know a place.” She smiles, bright.

****

They find themselves in a museum of taxidermies, dead animals staring out at them with glass eyes. Hannibal hadn’t expected this in the least, though the outing is not unwanted. He’s satisfied with its outcome; he finds Katarina interesting. He likes the oddness about her, how she moves without regard for other’s opinions. He admires her for it.

“I own this little collection,” she tells him. “The museum operates under very limited hours.”

“I’m glad that you’ve taken me here,” he tells her. “Some people feel that in performing taxidermy, we honor something which was lost.”

“Life?” she counters.

“Precisely. Do you feel as if you’ve honored these animals by displaying them?”

She shakes her head, a firm no. “It’s irony,” she tells him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t realize what we’re losing until it’s gone. And only then do we treasure it.”

It’s too bad when she leans in to kiss him, in front of the display of the mongoose, that he decides he must have to kill her. He bites out her tongue as she presses her lips against his, and he lets her fall to the floor with a sigh. He watches as she chokes on her own blood, groveling on the floor. He eats the tongue as a snack. It’s a shame; he would have kept her as a friend, if it didn’t have to be like this. But he despised adultery, and this would be precisely that. He is fused to Will, even now. He poses her as Bouguereau’s Evening Mood, clad in black, displaying her perfect porcelain nude form, rosebud nipples peaking through black. 

****

Canada: January 3rd, 2020

Hannibal sits across from Clarice in a dimly lit room. They stare at each other in silence, neither wanting to begin the conversation. Hannibal hopes she will cave in; he is at the disadvantage conversationally. He must wait. The silence seeps into their skin like acid rain, burning at their flesh. But Clarice does cave, eventually.

“You didn’t kill me,” she begins.

“I could have,” he points out. He wants to see if she’ll attack him now; he’s ready in that case. Though, he hopes it doesn’t have to come to that. Above all, he hopes that maybe she will understand him, his actions. 

“Yes, you could have. Why didn't you?” It's nonchalant, how she says it. Almost as if she'sdaring him to kill her now. But Hannibal is not prey; he does not take bait. Not unless it would serve him to do so. No, he will not nibble on this hook today. Even though the temptation of killing her is a sweet and succulent morsel.

“I realize that I’ve been terribly rude to you.”

She laughs bitterly at the statement. “Is that all?” She stands from her chair, walking around the library. She runs her hand over the spine of the books.

“After all, you are not my sister. I am not your brother. It was wrong to try and make us something we are not.” He takes a long sip of his wine. He’s drinking more, lately. It numbs some of the sadness. “We have a lost sibling in common. You must understand the want to get that back. Don’t you, Clarice? Wouldn't you do anything to have your brother back?” Hannibal watches his reflection in the wine and allows it to be distorted by the ripples of it. He can’t stand to look at himself.

“I thought by coming here, maybe I’d get a fragment of him back… But I was clearly mistaken.” Clarice picks a book off of the bookshelf, Anna Karenina by Tolstoy, and flips through its pages. “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

“Does Tolstoy strike a chord with you?” Hannibal asks, turning towards her in his chair. His eyes bore deep into hers as she looks at him. Their intensity is almost overwhelming.

“Do you think we’re an unhappy family, Doctor Lecter?” Clarice counters.

“Perhaps unhappy acquaintances. Do you find it disturbing that I resemble your brother?”

“Not any longer,” Clarice sighs, putting the book back onto the shelf. “My fascination with you has turned sour. I suppose you expect that I won’t call Jack.”

“I think we have an understanding about that,” Hannibal stands. “Besides, would you want me to get caught?” He carries her half-drunk glass to her. “I don’t think you do, Clarice.”

“Why not?” Clarice says as she takes the wine from his hand. She considers spilling it over the floor, just to see the look on his face. She haphazardly rotates the glass.

“Because you understand why I do what I do.” Hannibal only lets her believe that she does. 

She turns to straighten his lapel, patting her hand on his chest once she’s finished. “So, what do you propose we do?”

“Well, you’ll have to go back to Jack and tell him I let you go.”

“I don’t want to go back to work for Jack, Doctor Lecter.” She walks away from him and turns once there’s enough distance between them.

“You’ll be working for me, instead,” Hannibal offers.

“And do what, kill Jack?”

“That’s left for someone else to do.”

“Will Graham?” she fires back. “He’s gone, Doctor. He’s been gone for three days. It doesn’t look like he’ll be coming back.”

“Will is never gone. He’s gone astray, but he’ll find his way again... So, tell me, will you willingly participate?”

Clarice wonders what Hannibal would do if she were to say no. She has a precarious sense that he would most likely have her for dinner. Clarice nods. “Yes, I think I will.”

****

Baltimore: January 4th, 2020

With a new tumbler of whiskey in hand, Will leans back into the chair comfortably. He sets the glass on the arm rest and then rubs his face with hands. He does it to clear his head, to re-establish his bearings.

“The FBI is looking for you, Graham. You know that. You could’ve been caught a million times. I can’t just put you on this case.”

Will shakes his head, looking in the distance. “I don’t want to be _on_ this case Jack. I want to consult, privately. I don’t want any of the crap from the FBI.”

“You’ve become full of bullshit since dipping into Hannibal Lecter’s mind,” Jack jokes. “You know I can’t do that.

“Can is a precarious word. It’s almost like a rule. Can do, can't do... But you and me, Jack? We’re not about rules; you’ll use me in whatever way you can. And I’ll tell you why. You can’t catch him without me, even if you tried.”

Jack knows it’s true, and he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s silent, nodding. “So, what do you propose?”

“Keep me hidden for a while, just long enough to solve this case. And then I’ll be out of your hair. I just need to figure some things out, and one of those things is how much of my old life I don’t want to lose.” Will inserts a piece of honesty in the spiel, a lesson he’d learned from Hannibal. It was necessary in order to make himself sound sincere.

“And what if you find that you want to go back to the FBI?” Jack asks him, frank.

“I’ll go through whatever procedures I have to. They won’t prosecute me. They’ll let me go; they have no evidence to put me in for anything.”

“They might put you in a psychiatric hospital Will. Aren’t you afraid of that?”

“I don’t fit in in a psychiatric hospital. I’m not scared.” Will finishes the rest of the whiskey in one smooth gulp. “So what do you say?”

Jack sees the ghost of Hannibal Lecter standing behind Will, and he knows that if he entertains Will for long enough, he’ll have Hannibal within arm’s reach. “It’s a deal,” he says. “Now get out of my fucking house.”

“Let’s shake on it, then.” Will extends his hand out to Jack after rising from his seat. The ghost of Hannibal Lecter stands between the two men as they shake, an arm on each shoulder, a devil sealing the deal.

****

Canada: January 8th, 2018

Hannibal stands at the lakeshore, watching his last creation he had formed in the image of Will’s desire. The Wanderer, blind, staring out into the fog over the vast waters. It’s poetic; he could almost see Jack there, blindly watching.

Clarice watches him from the trees, and she wonders where he’ll be going after this. Her heart aches for him, somehow. And yet, she knows that she can do nothing for him more than follow his instructions. She wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.

Hannibal flips open the phone, dialing a familiar number. It rings a few times, before the other end picks up.

“I left a present for you,” Hannibal tells him and provides him with coordinates to the home. It’s just a few miles off, but they would search the forest thoroughly for miles until they find the precise location. In the home on the dresser is this location, the Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. He shuts off the phone and throws it into the water. Nodding off to Clarice, this is how they part. They both know what needs to be done.

Behind them, miles and miles away, is an empty home. The one that he and Will had built together. With time, it will fill with dust and begin to fall apart. It wasn't unlike their current state now, miles and miles away from each other. They were drifting, crumbling. Hannibal wishes he hadn't pushed so hard, but something within him couldn't have done it in any other way. He feels as if he had everything in his hands, and it slipped away like sand through the cracks between his fingers. He imagines their home falling apart, the only perfect remnant of it remaining untouched in his mind palace. 

_As he walks on, leaving Clarice behind, he feels Will walking next to him. "Are you going to remember this?" Hannibal asks him._

_Will grabs his hand, "How could I forget the first time I truly felt alive?" But he disappears with the words, crumbling away like dust._


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young The Giant--Cough Syrup

Chapter 31

Baltimore: January 8th, 2020

“I left a present for you,” Hannibal’s voice says through the cellphone. Jack’s hand trembles as he holds the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone that follows. Several hours later, he gets a call from the Canadian government, who were told they should contact his number from the note left. What was Hannibal playing at?

Jack purchases a ticket to Toronto immediately, leaving the Buffalo Bill investigation behind. He remembers Clarice’s screams on the other line, he wondered if she would be there too. Perhaps it was her body that was awaiting his arrival. He shudders at the thought.

****

LaCrosse, Wisconsin: January 9th, 2020

Hannibal sits on the bridge, overlooking the river. Winter’s frost covers the land in a blanket of white. It’s been so long since he’s been alone like this, the silence feeling foreign. He misses the loudness of Will’s footsteps in their home, the indelicate touch of his hand over any object it might possess. He removes a notebook from his coat pocket and begins drawing inside of it. First, he draws the scenery before him, a chilly winter landscape. And then, he began to draw over the water, the reflection of the man’s face he could not shake from his mind. Will’s eyes stared back at him on the page, empty. How he wished those eyes were next to him to look through his soul.

He removes a phone from his pocket then and stares at the saved number on the screen. _“Not yet,”_ he tells himself. He couldn’t call now; the time would come later for that. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket with a sigh, returning to those eyes on the page.

****

Wolf Trap, Virginia: January 9th, 2020

Will drinks straight from the bottle of whiskey, setting it down on the nightstand after taking a large swig. The alcohol burns on his throat, but he loves the fire. He hadn’t drunk like this since he’d jumped the cliff with Hannibal. When was the last time he had gotten truly, irrefutably hung over? He hadn’t been reckless in this way, not since entering Hannibal’s world. Hannibal’s world called for a different kind of recklessness, one bathed in blood and constructed of sinew and bone.

“Where’s your next letter?” Will asks to the air. “Just one? That’s not your style.” Will laughs to himself, letting his back crash into the bed.

He gets up suddenly, walking to the old piano dusty from disuse. He removes the cover from the keys and places his fingers nervously over them. He hadn’t played in so long—not since he had begun his professorship at the FBI, and yet he could never forget how to place them on the keys, fingers curled, wrist straight. He feels clumsy even before he plays a single note, but he recalls a melody which he’d heard before.

The first few notes plink out of the instrument monstrously, Aria from the Goldberg Variations. He could never forget the sound of the notes played on the harpsichord, Hannibal in his waistcoat at the instrument, his being spilling into it, light shining through the curtains and onto Hannibal. He looked like an angel of death then, alluring. A few bars into the melody, Will’s fingers trip over themselves, letting out dissonance into the air. And Will too feels dissonant, like the ending of this poorly played melody.

He shuts the key covers, imagining Hannibal sitting at the piano next to him. “Is this what you would have wanted?” Will asks the ghost.

“We only cause ourselves to suffer,” the ghost replies.

Will lunges at it in a fit of anger, but it dissipates as his fingers wrap around its neck.

****

Ontario, Canada: January 9th, 2020

Jack stands in front of the Victorian mansion, his feet buried in snow. The police had done nothing to the scene, leaving it for its intended viewer. The location was perfect, elegant and secluded. It’s no wonder Hannibal had been able to survive without being caught for so long—he was out of eye’s view, immersing himself in luxury buried deep by the woods. The Canadian police stand behind Jack, waiting for his move.

When Jack finally feels ready, he stalks forth with determination, opening the door with a forceful swing. He smells it immediately, decay and rot acrid in the air. He covers his face with his gloved hand as he walks through the home.

“It’s to your left,” and officer tells him. “The note instructed us to wait for your arrival before we…disposed of the scene.”

The officers keep their distance as they near the dining room, where Jack recoils at the sight before him. He places his hands over his head; in his years at the FBI there were few scenes which affected him due to desensitization. This was one of those rare scenes where Jack could barely stand to look. And yet, he must uncover his face.

Thirteen victims, defaced in their Last Supper, wearing pig’s heads. Jack’s vision blurs for a moment, and he swear he can hear Hannibal Lecter’s wicked laugh taunt him. He stumbles backwards, catching himself on a banister.

An officer approaches him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Jack nods, clearing his throat. “It’s Hannibal Lecter,” he says.

“The Cannibal?” the officer questions, a hint of amusement in his voice. But this wasn’t a time for joking.

But Jack laughs, bitterly. “Take the heads off. I need to see who’s underneath.” Jack leans against the banister as the forensics team works. He stands in silence, looking for each head. The last one is uncovered, and it’s not Clarice. Jack makes a fist at his side and turns around. “If you need to reach me, I’ll be in my hotel until tomorrow morning,” Jack tells the team as he leaves.

Just as Jack turns, he hears metal clanging underneath the floor. Jack runs to the basement, which is locked. He yells at an officer to knock the door down, but they come to slow for Jack’s patience. With sweat running down his forehead, Jack breaks the door down with the force of his body and he runs into the basement.

He finds Clarice there in a hospital gown, collapsed on the floor, kicking a door with her bare, bloody food. “Oh my god,” Jack whispers as he rushes towards her, taking her weak body into his arms. 

“Where’s Hannibal, Clarice?” Jack asks her.

She whimpers in response. 

The cops behind him stare at the scene. Jack turns to them, yelling, “What the fuck are you standing around for. I need some water. Call for medical assistance, now!” He turns to Clarice then, who is still conscious in his arms. “Clarice!” he calls out to her, stroking her matted and bloody hair.

She turns her head in his arms, displaying the bruising on his left cheek. “He left me here,” she tells him. “He wouldn’t kill me.”

“Is he still in Canada?” Jack asks her, urgency coating his voice.

“I don’t know,” she whimpers out, letting out a sob. She breaks down in his arms, her cries echoing through the basement halls.

****

Wolf Trap, Virginia, January 10th, 2020

Hannibal walks to the steps of the familiar home; it’s early in the morning, the sun just breaking over the horizon. In this secluded land, the scenery is breathtaking. Hannibal bites his lip as he looks away from the horizon, his gloved hand hesitantly reaching for the doorknob. He leans to the left, peering inside the home to see Will sleeping on the bed.

He enters the home quietly and looks to the floorboards immediately. In his mind palace, he accesses the memories of the boards which don’t creek beneath his feet, and he replicated the pattern he had memorized from years ago. This close to Will, Hannibal’s heart heaves in his chest. He notices the bottle of alcohol on the nightstand, completely emptied of its contents. Hannibal shakes his head in disapproval, but he knows that this is a journey which Will must take alone.

Hannibal stands over Will’s sleeping form, allowing himself to image how it would be if he could sleep next to Will now. With a faint smile, Hannibal places an envelope in Will’s hand, and Hannibal’s finger lingers over Will’s finger… Seconds pass too quickly, and Hannibal must leave before he disturbs Will.

The shutting of the door as Hannibal leaves is another heartbreak that Hannibal must endure for the sake of Will Graham.

****

Baltimore, Maryland: January 10th, 2020

With Clarice in the hospital for recovery and awaiting questioning by the FBI, Jack leaves his office for home. He carries his briefcase out of his car, angrily walking towards the door. His mind is spinning, and he questions if he has control over the situation. He thinks back to Canada, remembering how thoroughly they searched the home, going into the second basement where Clarice had broken out of. And yet, through their whole search, Jack could not find Bedelia who had been missing for an undetermined amount of time. Her last sighting had been before Christmas, and that was from a dubious source at best—a young man who had been let go of his job at a storage facility due to drug abuse.

Jack opens the front door of his home and walks to the kitchen. Jack places his briefcase on the dining table and tosses his coat over a chair and turns to make himself a cup of coffee. Jack falls to the floor as he sees the scene in front of him, letting out a scream. His palms hit the cold tile. 

Bedelia is a perfectly preserved corpse that stands posed in Jack’s kitchen as the picture of Lady Justice holding scales, one scale holding an FBI badge and the other scale holding a box, the scale with the box tipping lower. Bedelia's eyes are glassed over and hazy. Horror is frozen on her face as she stares out. Jack breathes heavily; this woman he knew had finally succumb to Hannibal. And Jack had known, from the moment Bedelia left in her search, that he would face her corpse one day. But Jack wasn't prepared for the realization: He could have prevented this. With a gulp, Jack forces himself to stand and approaches the corpse. He takes the box off of the scale. He opens it to find Canadian coins and a slip of paper. With a hitch in his breath, he unfolds the slip of paper and reads the elegant scrawl:

_“I hope this finds you well._

_It really has been too long, Jack._

_-Yours Truly"_

Hannibal’s voice echoes in Jack’s ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's a cheeky bastard. :P


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Lumineers--Dead Sea

Chapter 32

Washington D.C., January 11th, 2020

Jack sits at Clarice’s hospital bed, his arms crossed. He stairs at the clock on the wall as he waits; he would stay here by her side for however long it took. He had some questions he needed to ask her. Some blurry little tidbits that needed clearing up.

Clarice is restless for a moment before opening her eyes, turning to see Jack’s profile. “Jack?” she questions, confused.

“You’re in D.C., Clarice. I need you to answer a few questions for me.”

Clarice sits up in her bed, staring out blankly. “Whatever you need, Jack.”

“Just give me a moment,” Jacks says to her as he leaves the room. A split second later he returns with a short brown-haired woman. “This is Alana Bloom. She’s going to mediate.”

Clarice nods in agreement.

“Who is it that held you in the basement of that home?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Clarice says, the words forming like acid on her tongue. “He kept me there for weeks, in the dark.”

Alana pushes Jack to the side, “How can you be sure?” she asks her, incredulously.

“I’d seen his face in the pictures, heard recordings of his voice before. It was him without a doubt. He—he made me sit at his dinner table and eat human meat.” Tears begin to well in her eyes as she speaks, her voice crumbling.

“Why did he leave you?” Jack asks her. “Instead of killing you, he left you in that basement to die. That’s not something Hannibal Lecter would do.”

Clarice shakes her head. “He said it wasn’t my time yet. He said he’d find me later, to finish our game.” Clarice puts her head into her hands. “He let me go, but I’m not really free Jack. I have a target on my head.”

Alana sits on the edge of her hospital bed, rubbing her legs soothingly. “What happened to you isn’t your fault. You’re safe here; Hannibal can’t come to get you while you’re in Maryland. It would be suicide for him to step foot here. We’ll protect you.”

Clarice nods. “I just want to go back to my life, to the FBI.”

“We’ll need to screen you first. But it’s not out of the picture for you.” Alana turns to Jack then. “We’ll finish the questioning later. She needs time to heal, to get her vitals back up. Who knows how long she’d been without food and water? Let’s talk outside, Jack.”

Jack flashes a distrustful, frustrated look at Alana, but begrudgingly leaves the room with her. They walk further from the room, Jack looking back over his shoulder as they reach the end of the hallway. With only nurses walking through the halls, Jack lets out a sigh.

“She’s hiding something. She knows more,” Jack spits at Alana.

“We can’t force the information out of her! She has to want to tell us, Jack. It’s not like we can waterboard her just to get a few little juicy bits out of her.”

Jack laughs, “Maybe you wouldn’t. You don’t know what’s going on here, Alana. Hannibal’s already been here. In Maryland. He’s even left me a present in my own fucking home!” he shouts at her.

“Quiet down, Jack. We can’t let the whole state know he’s back. It would be pure chaos.” Alana lets out a heavy breath, filled with worry. “We all have a target on our heads. And how do you know it was Hannibal?”

“He left Bedelia’s corpse in my kitchen, dressed her up as lady justice. Clarice’s badge was on the scales. Who else could be?”

Alana takes a few steps away from Jack. “I need to talk to Margot. We can have this handled discretely. We don’t need to go through legal channels.”

“I want to see him rot in a cell for eternity; I don’t want him exterminated like a flee.”

“What so he can just escape again? We already know that he’ll always find a way out. He’s the whole goddamn circus, and we’re all part of his act. Don’t be foolish Jack.”

****

Wolf Trap Virginia, January 10th, 2020

Will sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the unopened envelope he’s tossed on the floor. He smells the air, the faintest hint of Hannibal’s cologne still lingering. He thought he’d imagined it all, that this had been a hallucination. Will runs out of his home, clad in only his boxers and a t-shirt. The screen door slams behind him as his bare feet hit the snow.

“Where are you hiding?” Will shouts out at nothing. No one answers his question and he returns, shivering, in the home. He begins to check every room of the house, throwing blankets and curtains onto the floor. Huffing, he collapses on the floor next to the bed, letting his head hit the mattress with a thud. He grabs the letter and rips it open in frustration.

_Dearest Will,_

_By the time you read this letter, I will already be far from Wolf Trap, Virginia. I knew I would find you here, though I hoped my first letter wouldn’t reach you. And yet, how else are we supposed to discover ourselves without going back to the beginning? It is, after all, where the conception of individuality takes place. Does your old life feel so familiar now? Or does it feel like a haunting instead of a home?_

_Without you, I find I can’t call any place home. Not even what we had left behind in Canada. I can’t seem to bury the memory of us quite yet. In that light, I’ve decided to leave you bits of the past; I hope they find you well._

_Yours Truly,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

Will tosses the letter to his side, his stomach turning with an ill feeling. He feels anger, resentment even. And yet, beneath those horrible little feelings, Will feels longing.

Washington DC, January 11th, 2020

Jack brings Bedelia’s body in a black body bag through the crime labs; he finds Jimmy and Brian there. “I need this body analyzed, discreetly. The results you find need to be given to me directly; no one else can hear about this. Do you understand?”

Brian and Jimmy nod and Jack places the body bad on top of the metal table. “If even a slip escapes either of you, your careers here will end permanently. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Jimmy responds seriously and waits for Jack to leave the room before turning to Brian. “Someone’s got a stick up his ass today.”

Brian laughs, unzipping the bag. When Bedelia’s frozen face stares back at him, his face falls. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Jimmy,” he whispers.

Outside of the room, Jack picks up his phone and dials the number Will had left him on a piece of paper should he ever want to reach him. The phone rings out several times, and Jack is about the hang up before Will’s voice greets him on the other end.

“It’s about time you called.”

“I’ve got something I’d like for you to see,” Jack says. “I’ll come by you in an hour. We’re heading to West Virginia.” Jack hangs up the phone before Will has a chance to respond.

Portland, Oregon, January 11th, 2020

Hannibal finds himself in a coffeeshop, sitting across a stout portly man who looked disturbingly like his former patient Franklyn Froideveaux. The man complains to him loudly about his own life, speaking with his mouth open while he chews on his scone. A dribble of coffee escapes his mouth as he begins talking about his wife.

In the middle of the story, the man stops talking and asks Hannibal, “What did you say your job was again?”

Hannibal crosses his legs and adjusts himself in his seat elegantly. “I’m a psychiatrist. But we are just talking, aren’t we?”

“We’ll shit. At least you’re not a bad listener. Anyway, my wife, Karen—she’s a real bitch.”

_As the man talks, Hannibal looks past him and enters his mind palace. In the man’s place sits Will, sipping at his coffee angrily._

_“Feeling lonely, Doctor?” Will asks him._

_“You haven’t called me Doctor in some time, Will. Why so impersonal?” Hannibal takes a sip of his own coffee, smiling._

_The coffeeshop around them dissipates into Hannibal’s office in Baltimore, the they had so many conversations in years ago. Will shuffles in his seat uncomfortably. “What would you like me to call you, then?”_

_“Whatever you want to call me,” Hannibal responds. He reaches out for Will’s hand but Will tugs it away._

_“Piece of shit fits—I think.” Will laughs bitterly. “I’m surprised in all of my rudeness you haven’t decided to make a three-course dinner out of me yet.”_

_“I ask myself daily,” Hannibal laughs. “You haven’t killed me yet either, in all of your hatred of me.”_

_“You know what they say—there’s a thin line between love and hate. I haven’t decided where I am on that line, yet.”_

_“I know where I stand on that line,” Hannibal responds, his eyes watery. He smiles as if the Will of his imagination would be everlasting. Perhaps this state of disassociation would satisfy him until the end of time. But Hannibal knows, from all of his lessons in human psychology, that imagining Will away from reality would only worsen his mental state. But Hannibal can’t quite tell himself that he doesn’t want to be ill; he wants to be lovesick like this. It was better than the alternative, the emptiness of the past._

_“Don’t get romantic with me, Doctor,” Will snaps back._

_Hannibal reaches out again for Will’s hand, and this time Will lets him hold it. Hannibal strokes it gently, but Will looks back at him and tells him, “I’m sorry to cut our session short,” before he disappears._

In Will’s place is disturbing, dissatisfying reality. The portly man looks at Hannibal and says, “They’re closing in a few minutes. Do you mind taking this elsewhere?”

Hannibal smiles deviously as he stands from the chair. “I know just the place.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Matt Maeson--Dancing After Death
> 
> I'm really quite proud of this chapter. Hope you enjoy reading it as well. :)

Chapter 33

West Virginia January 11th, 2020

Will exits his car, following closely behind Jack. Jack turns back to Will, telling him, “The scene is fresh. We have an hour before forensics comes. I need you out before then. Do you have enough time?”

Will nods, pulling his glasses out of his coat pocket. Will is dressed similarly to how he had dressed before, the disheveled professor look more comfortable against his skin. “More than enough.”

“Too bad you didn’t bring your fly fishing boots,” Jack shouts at Will as they push passed the reeds by the river.

Will scoffs as the naked corpse comes into view. It’s flipped over so that its back is facing upwards. Will immediately sees the back of its thighs skinned, and then notices the missing scalp. Will’s eyes roll back into his head as the pendulum swings in his mind.

_In the back of the alley, I’m limping. Waiting. I stumble on the streets when I hear its voice on the phone. It hangs up upon seeing me, rushing towards me._

_“Oh, thank you,” I tell it sweetly. “You don’t need to help me.”_

_“Nonsense—you’re hurt!” it tells me; it’s comically naïve. I’d laugh in its face if I could._

_A few steps down the road, I shove its head against the brick wall of a building. I carry it home, where I keep it. I don’t starve it to be cruel; it’s like cattle. It serves a purpose. I need that skin. It’s mine; it does not deserve it. It’s had it long enough already; all of the beautiful peach fuzz coated skin._

_And me? I’m stuck in this wrong body. I’m not who I am._

_When the skin hangs lose on its body, I’m going to take the parts of it that are the prettiest. The parts that’ll fit in with the rest of my transformation. The time comes, and it behaves difficultly. It's rowdy. It begins to run away but I shoot it before it reaches the door._

Will shudders as he comes out of his imagination. He stares at the bullet hole through her chest. “He’s wearing them Jack. He doesn’t see these girls as human, they’re like cattle. They give him a hide to work with.” Will spits.

“Why?”

“He’s not who is he is. He doesn’t feel like a man; he wants to be a woman.”

“A transgender psychopath?”

Will shakes his head. “He’s not transgender; he’s something else entirely.”

“What is he then?” Jack yells.

“Like all of us, dissatisfied with ourselves.” Will walks away from the reeds, turning away from the corpse. “The bullet wound through the neck isn’t normal for him. This one was a struggle; she was stronger than the rest. Maybe he didn’t starve her long enough.”

“Why’d he take another scalp? You know the details; you say you know the details of the other crimes. This is the first time he’s taken a duplicate. Does he have an accomplice?”

Will laughs then, his back facing Jack. “The first one didn’t fit,” he says plainly. “Isn’t it obvious? He wants a perfect woman suit.” Will pauses then, standing and watching the horizon. “I’ll meet up with you later, Jack.”

****

Will sits on a swing strung up on an old oak tree. He’s alone; the house behind him has been left for the winter. He pushes his feet against the frozen ground, wondering what it would be like if he could swing high enough so that he could just fly into the sky and disappear. For a time. Even here, with Jack, he feels angry. The only satisfaction Will has is the feeling that he’s doing something good, using his curse to catch a killer.

Will’s phone rings in his pocket. He takes it out only to be greeted by a foreign number. He hesitates, thinking whether he should pick up. Only Jack should have this number. Will takes a deep breath before answering.

“He took the hair and the back of the thighs, didn’t he?” Hannibal’s voice greets him on the other end.

“No hello, Doctor Lecter? Where have your manners gone?” Will’s other hand forms a fist in his lap. This is retaliation for Will, the teasing and taunting. He wants to try and touch one of Doctor Lecter's nerves; maybe he wants Hannibal to hate him. It would be easier for Will, if Hannibal hated him. It would be easier if Hannibal came into his home again one night and decided eat Will's brain out, leaving the body there. Unposed. Raw. In Will's own home where Will wanted to stay unmoving. Will tells himself that's what he wants. It's all a goddamn lie, a pitiful one at that.

“You don’t care for my hellos anymore. Perhaps you’d rather be hearing goodbye,” Hannibal breathes into the phone.

As the men speak, they feel as if they’re plucked from reality. They’re transported elsewhere, to Hannibal’s old Baltimore home. They sit across each other at the long dining table. There's white plate and bloody meat coated in a red wine reduction decorated with edible flowers. It's all illuminated by a candle between the plates. Their meal is startlingly beautiful. Will shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Then this is goodbye,” Will tells him acridly, but he can't hang up the phone. Instead he waits for Hannibal to do it.

But Hannibal doesn't; Hannibal wasn't a man of goodbyes. Goodbye was too final. He preferred adieu--until we see each other again. A tango of a parting. Maybe now it was a slow death march for them. Maybe it was a spring waltz only for Hannibal. A goodbye that really meant: Hello. On the other end of the phone, Hannibal's heart races. He'd missed the sound of Will's voice. Even miles away their conversation feels like an intimate tête-à-tête, their jeering words really words of adoration. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Hannibal asks slyly; he's a snake, slithering and creeping into Will's bones. How he loves to get underneath the man's skin. This is how Hannibal tells Will he loves him.

“He’s making a suit out of them.” Will bites his tongue. “You must find it distasteful; it doesn’t have enough silk or paisley for you.”

“I didn’t know you hated my suits so, Will.”

“You look like an undertaker, a smug one at that.”

Hannibal laughs on the other end of the line. “Those are low blows, even for you. You’re upset I’ve found out how to contact you. The insults are a poor defense mechanism.”

“Weren’t the letters enough? You came into my own goddamn home. I told you, I don’t want you. I can’t be around you. I’m not myself when I’m with you.”

“Are you yourself right now? Does chasing after Buffalo Bill make you feel whole again? You can't be angry with me. I’m only reminding you of your options. You are the one who said you weren't willing to let us go fully.”

“You’re an unforgettable nuisance.” 

“But I am unforgettable,” Hannibal counters. “You’re still deflecting the question I’ve been asking you for quite some time now.”

“It feels like a good place to start,” Will finally gives in. “And I assume you’re the place to start on this Buffalo Bill case. Did you keep those newspapers and magazines in the house just to keep tabs on him? Was he a former patient of yours?”

“No. Disturbed as he was, I didn’t provide him care. Benjamin Raspail, however, was a patient of mine.”

“One that you had murdered, if I remember correctly,” Will replies sighing into the phone. “Ninth victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, but I do have to leave now. Happy hunting, Will” Hannibal tells him.

The dinner table disappears, and Will returns to the field. He clutches the phone in his hand, the line dead. He can’t seem to let go of the phone, and stares at the number on the screen. He dials the number then, but it’s disconnected. He feels lost now, free floating through space.

****

Portland, Oregon: January 13th, 2020

The police bust down the door of a motel room that hadn’t been checked out the day before. The motel manager called the police to remove the person staying there from the property. The lead officer stumbles backwards when he sees the man at the dinner table, the stench of rot in the air. “Jesus,” he swears.

The other officer next to him pushes past him. “You’ve been on the squad for what--ten years, Fred?” He laughs out.

The forensics crew comes in minutes after, taking pictures of the scene. The cops shout at each other as the forensics crew work on taking samples from the body. “I’ve gotta call up a friend I’ve got in the FBI. I think he’s gonna wanna see this. As a consult, you know?” Fred says.

The others give in and the officer steps aside, dialing the number. “Hey, Jack—it’s been some time. I’ve got something you’re going to want to take a look at. I’ll send ‘em right on over.”

Wolf Trap, Virginia: January 14th, 2020

Jack climbs out of his car carrying a bag and knocks loudly on Will’s door. It’s early in the morning, and he shouts, “Get up Graham!” 

Will opens the door groggily, wearing his pajamas. “You better have a good reason for waking me up so early,” Will tells him as he lets Jack in.

“I’ve got some photos of a crime scene for you to look at. A favor to some friends I have on the force in Portland. I know the signs; it’s the beginning of something bigger. It’s too unusual to be just a one-time deal for this guy.” Jack throws the yellow envelope on the table before setting the bag on the floor. “I brought you some groceries from home; you can’t go out buying your own.”

Will nods, “Thanks.” He opens the envelope to see the photos of a portly man sitting at a table, his breakfast in front of him. A mongoose figurine sits across from the man on the table, staring into the corpse’s cloudy eyes. “What kind of killer gives a man breakfast after killing him?” Will asks out loud, deceptively.

“I was hoping you would tell me.” Jack pulls out a chair and sits down.

Will is quiet for a moment, pretending to envision the crime. He doesn’t need to, though; he already knows from the scene. He fights back the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes, looking affected by the man's death instead, affected as he usually would. Jack can't tell the difference.

“Was the man missing any organs, Jack?”

“The man’s heart was cut out.”

“It’s in the protein scramble,” Will tells him quickly. “All of the other organs are intact. You—you already know all of that, but you like hearing it from me," Will stumbles across his words, overwhelmed. It was a crime of passion, a scorned lover maybe. It’s not his last crime; you’re right. He’ll do this to anyone that catches his eye and breaks his heart. He’s incapable of accepting rejection.” Hannibal was incapable of accepting Will's rejections, no matter how numerous.

Jack nods and takes the photos from Will. “I’ll let you get some sleep. But I wanted to let you know you’ll be getting someone to work with soon. A student who’ll keep this arrangement secret. Her name is Clarice Starling. I’ll introduce you two soon. You don’t have a say in this, otherwise our arrangement is null.”

Will opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Alright,” he whispers as Jack leaves. Will wishes he could argue, but he feels too entangled in the memory of the motel room to fight. He hadn’t thought he would hear the name Clarice Starling again. It disturbs Will to know she’s come back from Hannibal's grasp alive, and come back to the FBI at that. He swallows thickly, sitting down in the chair. When Will hears Jack’s car leave his property, Will lets go of the breath he had been holding.

He imagines the man on the table, with the very same breakfast that Hannibal had made for Will—the first meal that Hannibal had ever cooked for him. Will thinks of the mongoose too, the obscure metaphor that Hannibal had attached to Will. The image of the man becomes contorted by flashes of these memories. It is then that Will allows himself to cry, to yearn, to shout. He hates how unhinged he feels without Hannibal, how his sanity teeters on a tightrope. Maybe he should just free fall, like he had off of the cliff. 

Will remembers the letter Hannibal had sent him— _“I’ve decided to leave you bits of the past; I hope they find you well.”_ Hannibal wrote. Will hears Hannibal’s voice whisper the words into his ear. Hannibal is having Will eat his own heart. And gladly Will would eat it too, so he wouldn’t have to feel the lead weight in his chest.

_And so, Will sits in his mind palace, gaping hole in his chest. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto’s Third Movement plays in the background. Hannibal is sitting across from him, wearing a suit of black, a suit of mourning. There's a white rose pinned to his lapel. Hannibal serves Will the breakfast, and Will smiles at him sadly. Will eats every bite, tears streaming down his face._

_“Is this how you feel?” Will asks Hannibal brokenly._


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flora Cash--Breakthrough

Chapter 34

Wolf Trap, Virginia: January 20th, 2020

Jack and Clarice stand across from Will. Feeling tense, Will pours himself a drink from the half-empty bottle of whiskey. They’re quiet for a moment. Jack watches Clarice who seems agitated by Will. He wonders if they know each other, if Will had been with Hannibal in Canada. Will acts as he normally would when meeting someone new; he puts up a wall that is meant to scare the other person away. He particularly dislikes Clarice’s arrival into his home. Jack knows that Will doesn’t want someone to work with, but Jack needs someone to keep an eye on Will when he can’t. He doesn’t trust Alana to keep her mouth shut about Will. Clarice, however, Jack could use. He felt that after encountering Lecter, Clarice would want to capture him. He projects his own desires on her, missing the fact that Clarice just might be entangled in Lecter’s game. Jack has no reason to believe that Clarice isn’t innocent.

“Clarice has agreed to keep our arrangement secret, Will.” What Jack means is that he’s charged Clarice with monitoring Will’s every movement, every phone call. She’s to report back to Jack if Will should get in contact with Lecter.

“It’s already too late for me to change your mind,” Will spits back. “I don’t have much choice in the matter. You’re making a mistake, Jack. Did you learn from Miriam Lass? Here you are, using the students again. Really questionable ethics on your part.” Will is laughing almost as he talks, finding the irony too thrilling. Jack has flaws, flaws that make him predictable. Will knows that Jack distrusts him; he hopes to use Clarice as a watch dog. Will doesn’t like being monitored.

“Clarice is a willing participant in this—” Jack beings.

Clarice cuts him off. “We need as many heads as we can get on the Buffalo Bill case. I’ll try to not get in your way too much,” Clarice offers. She wants to come off as kind, it’s almost convincing. But Will knows that beneath her smile is sharp teeth.

Jack checks his watch. “I’m needed back at Quantico. I’ll leave you two to get to know each other better. You’ll be working together until we catch Buffalo Bill.” Jack throws his jacket over his shoulder and rushes out of Will’s home, the screen door swinging behind him.

Clarice and Will stand still, waiting for Jack’s car to depart. Once Jack’s car is out of view, Will turns to the kitchen and finds a bottle of red wine. He pours a glass for Clarice and then leans against the counter. “We have some catching up to do,” he tells her coldly.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Clarice tells him. It’s cute, almost.

“You didn’t refuse to be part of Jack’s project,” he counters. “How do you feel?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that.”

“Does Jack know about Hannibal?” Will looks away from her, at the floor.

“He thinks I was hit by a car in Toronto. A poorly timed accident coincidental with your arrival.” Clarice walks through his home. It wasn’t how she imagined Will’s home would look. She imagined something less dusty, less worn.

“Hannibal didn’t always do my decorating,” Will jokes. A pause. “He let you go.”

“He left me to rot,” Clarice spits back.

“A brother-sister squabble, Mischa?” Will follows her through his home.

Clarice turns around, eyes wide and watery. “Don’t call me that. That’s not who I am.”

“You wish you could be her. Deep down. You wish you found a brother. That’s why you’re doing his bidding right now. Whatever it is.”

Clarice laughs. “You’re sick if you think I’d want anything to do with Hannibal Lecter.”

“If that we true, you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me, either.”

“I thought you had nothing to do with him,” Clarice hums, smiling wickedly.

“I don’t.” But Will feels the ghost of Hannibal lingering between them as he says the words. Hannibal is sewn cruelly to Will's skin; Hannibal desires etched on Will's mind. He wonders if Hannibal would want him to kill Clarice. Not now, but later. He finds their game with her unfinished. He feels upset by this. When Clarice smiles at Will smugly. he imagines how he would twist her neck with his bare hands. Will did not ask for this memory of his past with Hannibal. But now here it was, raw and tempting in front of him. Will swallows, afraid of his own desires that fester in the pit of stomach.

Washington, DC: January 20th, 2020

Alana sits across from Jack at his desk. He throws a manila folder at this. “Only three others have seen this including me. You’ll be the fourth.”

Alana opens the folder to find Bedelia’s corpse staring back at her. She notes the missing leg, thinking back to Hannibal’s dinner table. She flips through the rest of the pages, finding no conclusive results. “He didn’t leave a trace.”

Jack shakes his head. “He left Clarice and Will,” Jack counters. “Hannibal doesn’t leave physical evidence. He leaves puzzle pieces.”

“Aren’t you afraid that Will would be spotted?” Alana finally asks him.

“Will always preferred being a hermit. I don’t think he’ll try to make himself visible, now.” Jack takes the folder back.

“And what about Hannibal? Don’t you think he’ll try to find Will?” Alana says. “Not even betrayal kept them apart. Whatever made them separate now—that won’t keep Hannibal away.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

Alana feels unease brewing in the pit of her stomach. She feels as if she’s a deer, being hunted from behind the trees. The life she built with Margot and their son—feels as if it’s fading. She wants to run, to stay away from all of this. And yet, she can’t. She wants to be the hunter, waiting behind the trees for the right moment. She wants to take out Hannibal in one fell swoop. She just doesn’t know who the better hunter will be.

Baltimore, Maryland: January 23rd, 2020

Clarice picks up her cellphone when she reaches the storage company. She dials the number, waiting patiently for someone to pick up. “I’m here,” She breathes into the phone.

“I need you to find unit 304,” Will tells her on the other end of the line. “You’ll know what to do when you get in there.”

“But—” Clarice begins but the line goes dead.

She exits the car and runs across the street. She shows her FBI badge to the man at the counter and he guides her to the storage unit. He cuts off the lock for her and leaves with a head nod. Gulping, she enters the space. She notices the elegant furniture coated in dust. It’s reminiscent of what Hannibal had bought for the home in Canada. She picks up a medical novel and realizes that the unit in fact belongs to Hannibal.

Walking back further in the unit, she stumbles backwards. Perfectly preserved in a jar is a man’s head. Bloody and battered, it looks gruesome. She takes off her coat and covers the jar with it. She rushes to her car, knowing that this is what Will had wanted her to find.

She places it on the passenger seat and takes her phone to call Will, but instead she sees a number appear on her phone screen. She answers it quickly. “Will?” she asks.

“Hello, Clarice,” Hannibal greets her on the other end.

“Hello.” She responds coolly and begins driving away from Baltimore towards Wolf Trap Virginia. “I’m leaving an old storage unit of yours. You have quite a collection.”

“Do tell Will that the head isn’t mine. I simply just stowed it away for a friend.”

“I can’t walk into this blindly, Doctor. What do you want from me?” Clarice demands, irritated. The line goes dead, however. She tosses the phone away, knowing that there would be no point in redialing.

Los Angeles, California: January 23rd, 2020

Hannibal walks in ordinary clothes through the streets. His hair is longer, and stubble forms on his face. He wears glasses now. He feels hidden from the observer; his normally clean appearance now distorted. He stares out at the ocean.

A homeless man approaches him, and Hannibal reaches into his pocket for a change. The homeless man stares at the coins in the palm of his hand. “That it? Forty cents?” he asks, irritated.

Hannibal smiles. “You’re right. Let me get you a meal.” Hannibal motions for the man to follow him down the boardwalk.

_As they walk, Hannibal turns to find Will walking beside him. “I like the new look, Doctor,” Will tells him._

_“Thank you,” Hannibal replies warmly. Together they look back to the homeless man walking behind them._

_“You’re giving me so many gifts,” Will tells him. “I feel spoiled.”_

_“I was worried that you wouldn’t appreciate them.” Hannibal places his hand in Will’s. “I wish I could make us dinner tonight. It’s been too long.”_

_“Someday soon,” Will promises him._

_“Will you come back then?” Hannibal asks him._

_Will only stops him to press a kiss on his lips. “Where’s the fun if I tell you everything?” He tells Hannibal as he fades away._

How sweetly Will was killing him. Hannibal feels impatient, wanting to hold Will now. But he copes with loneliness as he had before. He composes a siren song for Will. A puzzle that only he could ever solve. And when he does, Will will come back to him, like a supplicant with open arms. He would accept Hannibal whole again; he would accept their unity again. Will couldn't survive without Hannibal, just as Hannibal cannot survive without Will. 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt Maeson--The Hearse (I imagine this song from Will's point of view.)

Chapter 35

New Orleans, Louisiana: January 24th, 2020

The streets of New Orleans aren’t unlike what Hannibal imagined. The old, almost French feel of the atmosphere is comforting to Hannibal. And while Hannibal finds that New Orleans isn’t a refined city, the nostalgia that nips at his heart is what makes him feel comfort. He aches for the brown haired, blue eyed beauty that he had held in his arms. He had always imagined something other for them, perhaps returning to Baltimore together. He imagined on their escape, making a brief stop in New Orleans so that Will could show him the place that he called home for a time. It would be a kind of reciprocity, for Hannibal showing Will those bits and places that were most important to him.

It’s late at night now, and Hannibal walks through a cemetery. It’s a strange place to find himself in, he thinks. And yet, he feels alive among the dead. The air, cool on his skin, invigorates Hannibal. He wonders what it would be like to lie in a tomb, refined and respected. He wonders if anyone would honor him in the next life, worship him even. Hannibal straightens the glasses on his face as he walks forward, noticing a young man leaning against a tomb. When the man hears footsteps his face shoots up and he squints at the figure in front of him.

Hannibal nods a hello to him politely as he passes him.

“Wait,” the man says suddenly.

Hannibal turns around and looks into his deep blue eyes, a pang in his heart. The particular shade of blue was not unfamiliar to him. “Yes?”

The man stumbles backwards for a moment, regretting saying anything. “Never mind,” he sputters out. The man screams as Hannibal catches him, knocking him down onto the brick ground.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Hannibal tells him as he takes the man.

“You’re the fucking Chesapeake Ripper,” the man stutters. “Don’t kill me, please.”

“Well, at least you said please,” Hannibal quips before placing his hand over the man’s mouth. Hannibal watches the man’s blue eyes open wide in terror. For a moment, Hannibal wishes he could stop but he reminds himself that this is not him. This is not Will. He is not Will. And yet, in the back of his mind, sounding like a requiem for the dead weight in his heart: Those beautiful blue eyes, what a shame for them to have to close.

****

Wolf Trap, Virginia: January 25th, 2020

It’s late, well past midnight. And yet, Will is still awake. The bottle of whiskey warms his body through and through. At least now, he feels ease flow through his veins. The new addition to his home, a golden retriever, wags its tail under the kitchen table. The house feels fuller now, but not full. Something is missing, someone who should be here. But Will denies this, that his home here is an empty husk of a life that he once knew. He doesn’t call this home anymore; he can’t.

If he were less inebriated, perhaps he would go elsewhere. Drive out in the middle of the night, above the speed limit far away from here. He’d bring the dog even. Onto the streets of Baltimore, the path so familiar to him. He remembers those roads; he remembers the little butterfly flutters in his stomach as he drove all those years ago. He remembers the hitch in his breath as he parked in front of the large home, too large for just one person. And yet, this is where he wants to be now. This is where he wants to wait, like a mongoose under the footsteps.

He downs another glass of whiskey, and it burns in his throat. At least this reminds him that he still feels. That the whiskey hasn’t taken away the humanity in him. Will walks to his laptop and turns a song on, and his hips begin to sway just a little to the beat. “You’d never want to dance to this,” he says out loud. He waits for the ghost to revisit him. It always comes, and he waits for it nightly. He waits for the succubus to wake the sleeping beast inside of him; he waits for it to drink his blood up and leave him cruelly for the morning. Weak, aching. But tonight, he doesn’t come. Hannibal does not come to him. No. Hannibal doesn’t come to him when he calls. Perhaps it’s the music that scares him away.

_Will stares at himself in the mirror, but he cannot recognize himself. This figure before him is foreign. The dog whines out at the feeling of discomfort in the air. Oh yes, Will is not comfortable in himself. Will blinks now, and rushes to his closet. He knows. He is not who he is._

_Will pulls out a wig from the bottom of the closet, from a Halloween party with Molly years ago. He puts it atop his head, and he dances through the home. This feels right. In the pit of his stomach, Will feels as if he’s freed. Behind him, on the kitchen table, the head in the jar lies still._

Belvedere, Ohio: January 25th, 2020

Far away from Will, is an echo. Buffalo Bill, with his newly made wig, stands in front of a mirror satisfied. This is who I am, he tells himself. The music is loud in the room and he begins to dance, alive. His hair flows around him as he moves, and he loves the feel of it sweeping against his shoulders. The perfect hair, for the perfect woman.

He ignores the screams in the home and turns the music up. His dog, jumps at his feet, yipping out in excitement. To the dog, this is a fun game. To Buffalo Bill, this is something more. This is a metamorphosis.

Wolf Trap, Virginia: January 25th, 2020

Will wakes to the sound of his phone ringing. He notices the time, well past mid-afternoon. His head is pounding, and a nauseated feeling threatens the pit of his stomach. He answers the phone groggily, not paying attention to the number. 

“Jack?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Try again,” Hannibal teases on the other line.

Will hangs up the phone angrily and tosses it on the sheets. Moments later, it rings out again and Will refuses to pick up the phone at first. But he turns around quickly and fetches the phone. “What would you do if I stopped answering all together?”

“I would still have my letters,” Hannibal tells him.

“And if I don’t read those?” Will fires back.

“If you would like to truly end things between us, I will respectfully back off. It that is your wish,” Hannibal responds with sincerity in his voice.

Will is startled by these words. He hadn’t expected them. He thought that always Hannibal would be at his doorstep, poking and prodding, until Will would change his mind. Will is silent for a moment, thinking. Does he want the calls and letters to stop?

“I wouldn’t like to say goodbye,” Hannibal tells will. “What a shame when lovers have to part.”

“I understood the meat in the hermetic bags. But the jar?” Will changes the topic.

“Did Clarice not send you the message?”

Will laughs. “You’re just keeping it for a friend. That’s what a child would say. Benjamin Raspail was a patient of yours, a trombonist in the Baltimore Philharmonic. Did he miss a note at one of the concerts you attended?”

“It ruined the evening,” Hannibal laments. “Raspail was a gay man. He came to me for treatment of bipolar disorder. But his troubled relationship was also discussed.”

“His lover Klaus,” Will thinks for a time. His mouth opens and closes. “He was killed shortly before Benjamin. Was Raspail’s ex-boyfriend Buffalo Bill? That doesn’t explain the head. Buffalo Bill didn’t kill Raspail.”

“You’re not wrong. There’s a story Raspail told me, where upon watching a moth hatch Buffalo Bill realized something.”

“You know his name, Hannibal. Give me the name,” Will demands. “You—you orchestrated this.” Will realizes. “You always intended for me to return to Wolf Trap, Virginia. You want me to find Buffalo Bill. Is he also on your morbid list of meals? Hannibal!” Will shouts into the phone, enraged. It’s as if Will all Will can see is red, like blood, like anger, like heartbreak. His stomach recoils at the realization. He feels as if he's a pawn to Hannibal. That their shared moments of tenderness are tarnished now. 

“Another time, perhaps,” Hannibal tells him, his voice soft. There’s a pause and Will expect for Hannibal to hang up the phone. But he doesn’t. “I miss you,” Hannibal tells him. "I never meant for you to do this alone. But this is how it must be." 

“I—” Will begins, but he hangs up the phone, unsure of what to say to Hannibal. _"I still love you, only as much as I hate you right now."_

Washington D.C.: January 25th, 2020

It’s the evening now, and Jack sighs as he waits for takeout. He hasn’t cooked in so long, the practice of it seeming disgusting to him. It was easier this way, to order takeout. To put the responsibility on someone else. He can’t stand the sight of a knife slicing into meat on a cutting board. The image of it brings up memories: of the meat Hannibal served. Jack almost considered becoming vegetarian.

There’s a knock at the door, and he rises to open it. Will stands in the doorway, disgruntled. “I was expecting the Chinese delivery man,” Jack tells him. “You’re not supposed to be out and about. Are you stupid?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, Jack,” Will tells him. “I need you to be available. I can’t sit around home all day like what? A potato? This is important.” Will hands a garbage back to Jack. “Careful, it’s heavy. I wouldn’t look at it until after dinner.”

“I’ve already lost my appetite,” Jack tells him, taking the bag. He places it on the kitchen table and takes out the jar. “I don’t want to know how you got this,” Jack spits at Will. “It’s better if I don’t know.”

“Clarice got it for me, on a hunch anyhow,” Will tells him. “This killer—he wants to transform. This process for him is like metamorphosis. There has to be something in the head. And if it’s there, it’s going to be in every single one of the victims,” Will tells him.


	36. Chapter 36 part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of a three part chapter. A smaller installment. More to come in the next weeks. A case brings Will to New Orleans. Narrated from Will's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Matt Maeson--Tribulation

Chapter 36 part 1

January 26th, 2020: New Orleans, Louisiana

~Will Graham~

Another day the case comes to a halt. My head spins upon the realization that for some time, I have to be out of his head. Remove myself from Buffalo Bill. The fucking spinning never stops though. The dancing in my mind like a parade of self-loathing and destruction unfurls the more I try to force my head to focus on something else. And I’m a fucking fool for thinking I could stop thinking about the case; just like I’m a fucking fool that I could stop thinking about _him—always him._

Instead.

Instead. I.

I watch Jack as he stomps in front of me.

That’s easier.

The stomping echoing in my ears like the beat of a drum.

The anger surging forward through the ground.

Jack is angrier than ever before. The emotion is overbearing.

After all, Jack does not walk. He is an oncoming hurricane to the ports of New Orleans, ravaging winds to a place I once might have called a home. But was it ever? But Jack’s presence here, bringing me in the dead of night—it’s not something I asked for. I would tell him, but Jack’s trying to keep me on a short leash. I’ll let him think he’s successful for a while. Let him think he’s holding cards he doesn’t have. And I’ll build a cage around him like this, until he realizes too late that he’s trapped. Whatever Jack believes he’ll get from me or with me, he won’t. I know his game too well.

But I don’t know what I’ll see next. Which is why, when I enter the halls of the church, I can smell the faintest scent of reminiscence floating in the air like melancholy perfume. I know before the scene; I know he’s been here.

The infamous he. No. No. No.

He. Capitol. Capitol H like a terrible, divine, entity.

And the smell of Him in the air,

Take my bones and use them to make a broth,

That would feed you through the end of time,

You always wanted to consume me whole anyway.

You greedy beast, just take what’s yours already. 

And the words echo in my head, as I approach the confessional. Jack gets a call on his phone then which snaps me out of the Satan song I’ve made in His name. He snaps me out of prayer and religion, and for a moment I feel insane because of the ringing of a goddamn phone. Hypersensitive, short attention span—I wonder why Jack can’t pick a better ring tone.

He answers and snaps the phone closed quickly. “I’m not supposed to be here for a couple more hours. I didn’t they would need me now. I have to go. Do your thing Will, and we’ll talk later in the day. Meet me in your motel room tonight.”

I nod at him wordlessly. Let him order me around. I would say something if I so badly didn’t want to see what’s been left here for me. Gift wrapped in pretty packaging of stain glass windows and church pews.

The confessional taped off, taunts me. Look inside it says. Interpret me. Like a wanton woman, it motions with its finger for me to come forward. "Will, what am I trying to tell you?" The Demon whispers into my ear, black horned and clawed, and ferocious. The scent of its bloodlust permeates in the air. Even my tongue turns metallic as a become absorbed in his portrait.

In front of me are two people. One tall with dark eyes as black as the night reflected in a pond, its murky waters still. He confesses to the other, no—not confesses. He begs, pleads. With a yearning so perverse yet so strong, I’m captured in it. It’s something I’m all too familiar with. The other man stares back with emotional blue eyes, resistant yet slowly breaking. The apologies seem insufficient. The excuses maddening.

But the two become replaced in my mind by the real players on this stage. Hannibal on his knees with tears in his eyes, and me standing straight, looking away. The rejection stings on his skin as he confesses his feelings to me, offers his heart out to me. I rub my eyes, wiping away my tears. I hadn’t noticed that I was crying. He’s always here; following me.

Hannibal brings me to New Orleans to tell me the simplest words.

I will always love you. I’m sorry.

In any other love story, it would be sweet.

Strong arms come from behind me, wrapping themselves around my waist. I should scream—wouldn’t someone normal scream? But I let him take me by surprise. I let him pull me into his chest when I turn around and inhale the vanilla-tobacco scent of his cologne. I nestle my nose into the crook of his neck, wondering if he hates that he’ll have to take the wrinkles out of his suit in just a few hours.

I tug myself away, only to find a different man.

He stares back at me with stubble and longer hair. A suit no longer hangs from his body. He’s thinner now, maybe. “To think the great Hannibal Lecter would become stupid for love.”

He pulls me into a kiss, and I should resist. I should tell him I hate him; I should take the gun in my holster and point it to his head.

Instead, I shatter then. Into a million pieces in the hands of Hannibal Lecter.

“I meant for us to take the Buffalo Bill case together. I never imagined you leaving, first,” Hannibal tells me then. “You were the only unpredictable element in my life. I could never control you.”

I wonder if this is the truth. I desperately want to believe it; I want to believe him. So that for a second I could give in, like a human. Give in and crumble. Maybe like a monster. For another monster. But this is unlike Hannibal. He speaks too honestly, without metaphor. How can I think, that after all this time that I’ve broken him into telling the truth? His fingers linger on my neck softly, seductively.

Maybe my eyes betray me, but I’ll tell him.

I have to.

I don’t want you.

I don’t want you.

I don’t want you.

The stag comes behind Hannibal.

The wendigo lurks in the background.

They’ve all come here for this. A sad goodbye party for the four of us.

“I,” I begin. Strongly. Confidently. “can’t stop wanting you.”


	37. Chapter 36 Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Matt Maeson--Mr. Rattlebone <\- a very Hannibal song, I think.

Chapter 36 Part II

I spy Will in the chapel, and Jack is running out. I’m careful to hide and watch for a while. I want to see Will’s ocean blue eyes take in my creation. Will he understand? I eagerly watch from the sidelines, a spectator.

He’s darling, his beard close trimmed and curls wild. If he had been Narcissus, I would have pulled him away from the water so I wouldn’t lose him to it. I would sweep him away so only I could stare into those orbs of light. I wonder how they will change when he sees me. Will they weep or glow or burn with fury?

Will gasps as he approaches the confessional, viewing the scene I made for him. Read me as an open book, I tell Will. Interpret my words, hear me darling. Take them in and let them mull around in your head. Let them sink into your veins so that they become a part of you.

But I know, as Will looks, what he will see. The men at the confessional will melt away like figures of wax, and in their place, I will be kneeling in front of him. I will spill my heart cold and black into his hands, so that he can watch it beat and turn to life. I have no use for it, none at all without him. And should he choose, I would allow him to chop it up and consume it. Would if I could, I would cook it up for him and feed it to him bite by bite if I could survive it. I will cede my power and control to him, if I would have to.

His eyes water as he feels. He understands, no matter how much it angers him that he can see me. That he’s become a part of my mind palace and now knows me. He can’t escape this fate, these rooms we share.

I slowly approach him, my shoes left somewhere else, hidden, so I don't make a sound. I wrap my arms around him from behind, a wordless hello. And he knows, immediately who it is that’s holding him. He relaxes in my arms first before tensing—a give that he cannot help. He shows me his truth in milliseconds. It is my duty to find them behind the tersely constructed guards he’s put up.

“To think the great Hannibal Lecter would become stupid for love.” This is how he greets me, with acid from his velvet tongue. But to me these are sweet words I would lap up, a man dying of thirst. Anything is better than the silence he would treat me with. I see him as he hesitates for his gun but changes his mind.

I let him resettle in my arms so he can face me. He looks at me shocked, a different man staring back at him. He wonders if the changed appearance would prompt a change of character. He knows my limitations, that I’m imperfect as a person. That I’m incapable of change. He believes. But he doesn’t know that a cold heart I’ve grown my whole life has flourished under his care. That for only him could I grow, become, feel. As much as he understands, he refuses to see this regularly. Only in the rubble of war, when we’ve both surrendered, does he see the tenderness. And he plots to use this, to manipulate my love. I couldn’t blame him; I do the same. I’m even more proud that he isn’t ashamed to tug at my heart with the hook he’s attached to it. He’s learned so well, a fisherman in my dead sea. I place my hand on his neck and stroke it lovingly.

I tell him the truth, because there isn’t another option. Will, my dear Will, is the only one deserving of it. “I meant for us to take the Buffalo Bill case together. I never imagined you leaving, first,” Hannibal tells me then. “You were the only unpredictable element in my life. I could never control you.”

“I,” he begins. Strongly. Confidently. “can’t stop wanting you.”

The words surprise him, tumbling out accidently but not quite. But I know these words to be true. That in the morning he wakes up with a bottle in his hand and still sees my shadow lingering next to him. He placed it there of his own volition, unwilling to let me go. Likewise, I walked with his shadow for so long, hand in hand.

I place my lips over his and kiss him softly, but he deepens the kiss quickly. I taste familiarity but also difference. He’s changed with time. I taste the sadness and anger on his lips, just as I taste lust and love. The faint taste of whiskey perfumes the flavor, finely made in an oaken barrel. I wonder what else I could taste.

If I could, would I be able to taste his words—the ones he doesn’t dare to breathe? Could I devour him in this way?

“Jack will be back soon. We need to go.”

I nod to him and take him by his hand. I will not let go first.

****

Wordlessly, I unbutton Will’s shirt slowly. I stare into his eyes as I do. It’s been too long since we’ve had such closeness. I want to melt inside of him, and I want for him to fill me. His hands take mine as I finish unbuttoning, his fingers entangled in mine.

“Stop,” he commands.

I listen, respecting him. He’s conflicted, I see. But I require his full surrender, just as he’s gained mine. Reciprocity.

He laughs, “I have so many questions.” He bites his lip. He’s happy, for a moment. “You let your beard grow out? Your hair’s longer too…”

“I had to hide in whatever way possible. At least I didn’t change my face through other means… I wanted you to see me as me.” I pause, stroking his cheek. “I have a question for you too.”

He nods.

“Will you leave in the morning without a goodbye?”

He nods to me. “We aren’t for goodbyes.”

I smile at him, “They’ve never managed to stick.”

Will lunges at me wildly, a starving creature waiting to claim what’s his. I kiss him back with equal fervor, our clothes coming off more violently now. Skin against skin, I finally feel at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be smut and will conclude this three part chapter. Told in third person, unlike the first two parts. After that, we will fully dive into Silence of the Lambs. And don't get me started about the Clarice show that CBS is doing -_-. So totally not cool. It's making me want to rewrite this without Clarice. But I will dutifully finish this version!


	38. Chapter 36 part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse--Time is Running Out

Chapter 36 part III

Shakey hands unbutton each other’s shirts, lust heavily saturating the air. The time spent apart only makes them needier, wilder. Hannibal thinks they should go slow, savor each moment. Will’s eagerness changes that thought quickly as he smashes his lips against Hannibal’s. Thin, wicked lips against rosebud. The salty twang of Hannibal’s mouth is heroin. Will would gladly overdose on the taste.

Will shoves Hannibal onto the bed and climbs on top of him. He strokes his hand over the pulsating vein of Hannibal’s neck. Delicate, soft—Hannibal’s skin is so unlike him. Will loves watching the small hairs on his neck stick up. Shivers run down Hannibal’s spine. “Would you make me suffer even now?” Hannibal asks Will needily.

“Always,” he responds with a growl. He bites down onto Hannibal’s lip, pulling on it as he parts. The bite draws blood and he licks it away with his tongue, staring Hannibal in the eyes. “Has anyone tasted you since I’ve left?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I slayed them all, beautifully. Saved myself for you. No one else can have me, darling.” He places his hands in Will’s curls, stroking them delicately.

“You are mine,” Will tells him. He takes Hannibal’s cock into his hand and strokes it slowly, drawing out a long moan from the man. “You’re already on the brink. Have you even touched yourself, or have you been waiting for me?”

Hannibal laughs out in frustration. “I touched myself daily to thoughts of you. Of the time we first made love, the time we fucked after our first kill together. All of it. Dizzying images of your cock fucking me stupid. And then there was that pianist…” Hannibal trails off, looking away from Will.

Will slaps Hannibal hard across the face, knowing it would leave a bruise. “A pianist?”

“You did leave after all. I posed her for you, in a way you would have been proud of. There’s only been you, love. I’m only teasing.”

Will places his hands around Hannibal’s neck, “Is that so?” He squeezes, watching Hannibal breathe in sharply. “You’ve been so naughty. My murder husband parading himself around, single.”

Hannibal turns Will over onto his back suddenly, taking back control. “Murder husband?” Hannibal questions.

“It’s your favorite name Freddie Lounds attributed to us,” Will whispers into Hannibal’s ear. “A terrifyingly sexy duo.”

Hannibal groans, his cock twitching against Will’s leg. “If I were to run off to Europe, would you follow me again?” Hannibal questions, biting into Will’s wrist. The blood drips out like seductive beads of crimson. He sucks it away, reveling in the divine taste.

“You won’t run off anytime soon, I hope.” Will teases as he takes Hannibal’s balls into his hands and massages them firmly. “Let me milk your cock, first. You feel ready to burst.”

“You taste more delicious than I remember,” Hannibal whispers into Will’s skin. “We’ve been apart for too long.”

Will places a kiss on the top of Hannibal’s head. “I remember you waiting three years for me once.”

“I would’ve waited an eternity for you,” Hannibal replies, shiny orbs of chocolates staring into Will’s soul. “I know you’ll come back to me, always.”

“I need you Hannibal, right now,” Will breathes out, stuttering. “I can’t wait any longer.”

Hannibal thrusts into Will slowly at first, holding Will’s hands above his head. He rocks into Will as if they have the rest of their lives to be joined like this, savoring every sensation. They stare at each other as Hannibal fucks him sweetly, eliciting the most delicious moans from Will.

Even as Hannibal thrusts into Will, a slow even pace, Will wants his ass to be fucked raw. He wants to feel what Hannibal's done to him for days from now. He begs for Hannibal to go faster, harder. He thrusts his hips up closer to Hannibal, wanting his cock to just rub into his prostate and ravage it. His eyes roll back into his head, the pure white glow of ecstasy in them. "Gods, Hannibal." Will manages to mewl out. 

"That's it, darling. Just enjoy yourself. I want you to feel everything." Hannibal pulls out his cock, just leaving the tip in Will. He thrusts in and out quickly and then slowly, watching as Will's expression turns from orgastic to teased. "Tell me, Will." Hannibal begs him, it's a pleading sort of cry that comes from deep inside of him. He needs to hear Will say it. He begins thrusting violently into Will, biting marks into his neck and nibbling on his lip. He splits Will's swollen bottom lip open, and smears the blood over Will's chin. Will begins to cry out as he reaches the brink, feeling a swell inside of him. The sensation is overwhelming and tears spill down Will's cheeks. He hadn't felt whole in so long. Hannibal wipes the tears away and licks them off his fingers, tasting their bittersweet reminiscence. 

Will remembers the time he'd convinced someone to kill Hannibal, how Hannibal fucked Alana just to spite him. He remembers how Hannibal ran off, leaving Will sliced open on the floor just barely clinging on to life. He remembers their chase, their time in Florence staring at the Primavera. He remembers as wakes in his home in Wolf Trap, Hannibal having carried him from Mason Verger's hell of a home. He remembers their fall from the cliff, how Hannibal looked almost relieved as they fell down and down, until their bodies fell into the sea and it spat them back out, unwanted. Reborn as something other, they walked hand in hand. Will remembers all this and more, dizzy and overwhelmed. He looks into Hannibal's red tinged eyes, and knows then. Will could never change this about their relationship: it would always be true, no matter how far or how close they are to each other. 

“I love you, Han,” Will whispers as he comes against Hannibal thigh. “I do.” He moans out breathily, a jagged kind of finish leaving Will gasping for air as he repeats, "I do." As if in this bed, on these blood splattered sheets, in this hotel room like a cathedral of the perverse and vile--he pledges himself to Hannibal for life, firm and sure. "I do."

It’s these words that cause Hannibal to fall apart on top of Will, coming violently into Will’s hole. He pants on top of Will's chest, listening to the beat of his heart. “Love isn’t enough to describe what I feel for you.” And this was true. Hannibal was not capable of human love. What he felt was far greater and much deeper. It was agape and pragma, eros and storge. All of these words the Greeks used to describe many kinds of love were one, and this is what Hannibal felt for Will. And it sat in his heart like a steadfast soldier, never faltering. This love was everlasting and pure in all of the decay surrounding Hannibal Lecter's landmine heart.

****

They spoke for hours holding each other in bed, Hannibal telling him the tales of each of his victims he’d gifted to Will. Will told him of Jack and Buffalo Bill and Clarice. They were all dancers in Will and Hannibal’s show, ugly and crude like Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. Hannibal laughed and cried, as did Will. Time seemed to collapse in that room, and as the hours ticked by they felt younger and fuller of life.

As the evening approached, Will seemed more worried. Hannibal stroked Will’s face, staring at his bruised lips. “The hour draws near where you’ll have to yet again choose a side,” Hannibal tells him.

He understands the look on Will’s face, having seen it before so many times. It was a look he’s come to associate with his own demise, an expression that told him that no matter how Will has come to love him, he could not always choose Hannibal in the way that Hannibal wanted to be chosen. Even now in his imagination, Hannibal is impulsive. His urge tells him to run off with Will, to find freedom in anonymity elsewhere. To leave this chapter of Buffalo Bill, Clarice, and Jack unfinished. Hannibal would abandon it all in this second just to hold Will close for a time. But he knows that this is not their destined path; perhaps that time would come later. He leaves this wish in his memory palace, a future door to be unlocked. 

“They’ll know I’ve seen you. Jack will know. One look at me and I’ll be an open book. The bruises and bites, it’s too telling. We were reckless.”

“We were ourselves,” Hannibal counters. “We can’t be anything less. Like Camus’ Meursault, we are ourselves to a fault.”

“Only around me, Hannibal. Otherwise you are a social chameleon in a three-piece suit and slicked back hair. You are a snake.”

“And you, my mongoose, are genuine in every part of your life. It’s admirable. It’s why I chose you the moment I saw you.”

Will sits up from the bed, turning his back from Hannibal. “They will catch you. I’m the X on a map that leads to you, the treasure. They think I’m your disciple. I'll lead you right to them.”

“Then be Judas,” Hannibal urges him. “Betray me.”

****

Will walks into Jack’s motel room, shirt collar loosely buttoned. It’s later than their agreed upon time, well passed midnight already. The night air is thick with humidity, and it’s difficult to breathe. But that’s not why Will holds his breath. He finds his tongue a numb, useless appendage. His mind spins as he knocks on Jack’s door. They echo like a death knoll.

Jack opens the door slowly, gun in hand. He points it through the small crack of the door. “Are you alone, Graham?” he spits out.

He’d been waiting; he knew that the crime in New Orleans was Hannibal. He’d known it before he’d driven Will down here. He’d even suspected since the first crime, the man in the motel room with a breakfast scramble. The look in Will’s eyes, dark and conflicted, had told Jack everything. Even though the M.O. was wrong, even though the crime didn’t reek of Hannibal Lecter, Jack somehow knew.

“Yes,” Will manages.

“I want your hands above your head,” Jack commands threateningly. Satisfied, he opens the door just enough for Will to come in. He points the gun at Will. “I want you to sit on that chair, hands under you. No fast movements. You have no liberties in this room.”

“I’m a wanted criminal Jack. I have all of the liberties I could desire,” Will spits back, tauntingly. “I’m more valuable to you alive. The gun is a power trip. You know you’ll never pull that trigger. Or—” Will begins. But the gun fires off, missing Will’s foot by an inch. Will doesn’t flinch. He stares into Jack’s eyes, instead. “you’ll miss,” he finishes. “Well done, Agent Crawford.” Will sits himself down, placing his hands under his legs.

“You know what I want,” Jack tells him.

“And you know I won’t give you that,” Will fires back.

“It’s either now, or I will have you locked up.” Jack as shaking as he shouts at Will, sweat beading down his forehead.

“You won’t be able to catch him,” Will offers.

“We will find Hannibal Lecter, with or without you.”

Will laughs then, “I mean you will not be able to find Buffalo Bill. Not without me. Starling is useless to you. She’s just a nice puppy dog you can play fetch with for a while.”

“She followed you to the hotel room,” Jack tells him then. “She’s been waiting to capture Hannibal.”

“He’s not there. And you’ll find Clarice won’t be in any state to catch him, either.” Will is amused; the guru no longer so wise. Jack was slipping, and he knew it too.

Jack looks at Will with disgust, eyeing the bruises and bloody marks on the uncovered areas of his skin. “You’re baiting me. But at the end of the day you know how this will end. Two inches from death. I can’t kill you and you can’t kill me. So why don’t we play nice for a while.”

“I need Lecter for that, or no deal. I’ve dealt with your lies for long enough. This agreement so far has only benefited you.”

“Did you find the moths in the victims?” Will shouts at Jack then.

Jack bites his tongue then. “This isn’t about Buffalo Bill.” 

“You will catch him only with Hannibal and me on your side,” Will fires back. He’s tense with knees shaking. Jack is getting on his nerves, and if he were less able to control himself, Jack would be split open on the floor by now. A wash of blood flows over Jack, and the pendulum swings wildly in front of Will's eyes. He imagines the design now; how he would have Jack’s head on a stick and parade it around the streets, its eyes gouged out and tongue removed. He’d consume the tongue first, and it would be bitter. As bitter as the words Jack holds back. Then he’d consume the eyes, which looked at so much but saw so little. Then he would move on to Jack’s brain, which housed a world of pain and regret, anger and dissatisfaction. He would taste these all smooth and creamy like butter on crunchy, fresh French bread.

“I don’t need Hannibal free in order to catch Buffalo Bill. I only need you.” Jack sits on the bed, placing the gun in his lap. He sighs, tired of the back and forth. “Will, a long time ago you were so eager to catch the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“And I did,” Will finally tells him. “In the only way I want him, under my thumb and wholly mine. Your cage wasn’t enough. It was never enough. He’s not yours to have.”

Jack laughs, “Did you ever think you’d end up falling for a murderer, a cannibal? Really, Will? This isn’t you. He’s done to you what he’s done to each of his patients. He’s taken your mind and twisted it so that it sees evil and death as good and beautiful. I pushed you too far, put you in his reach. But we can fix this. We can change it.”

“You’re assuming that I want to change,” Will whispers coldly, his voice cracking.

“Isn’t that why you came back? After running away with Hannibal—a small part of you wanted for things to be different. Do you know that Molly still asks if we’ve caught you. She has a different name now, and so does your son—Wally. But they still wonder, if you’ll ever be better. Or if you’re on a dinner plate.” Jack’s eyes warm up, with some sincere emotion. He does miss Will, the goodness within him. He thinks there’s still a small flame of it burning inside of him.

Will sighs, defeated. He’d agreed to this with Hannibal. He’s promised to go on with his plan, adhere to his words. But the promise burns on his skin like acid. He wishes it would melt him down to the bone. He’d never had a hard time betraying Hannibal before, and now, when Hannibal wants it—it feels almost impossible. When he's just held Hannibal, it hurts Will too. “You’ll find them both in Memphis, at a hotel near the courthouse. There’s a slip of paper in my back pocket.”

Jack nods, “Take it out slowly.”

Will agrees and removes the paper, heavy in his hands, and gives it to Jack who opens it to find the familiar scrawl. He crumples the paper in his hands immediately.

“I was supposed to drug you and take you to that location. Hannibal will be expecting me,” Will tells him as Jack reaches for his phone.

“We know how your plans have turned out before.” Jack says as he dials the number. 


	39. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt Maeson--Unconditional
> 
> Shorter than the usual chapter-length I've posted, but I felt like this should be a stand alone. I hope you enjoy. I will try to update as soon as possible. Thank you, as always, for reading. <3

Chapter 37

January 27th, 2020: Wolf Trap, Virginia

The next hours are a blur for Will. He’s transported quickly away from Jack and New Orleans. He’s not to step foot near Memphis; it’s not what Will wants. If he could manage to speak, not stare at his shoes, he would tell someone that he’d rather be locked in a cage next to Hannibal Lecter than go back to Wolf Trap, Virginia. Prison was heaven compared to the misery he felt now, free. He could only hope that Hannibal had a plan.

When he’s plopped into his home, he doesn’t bother to look at Jimmy Price who drops him off. They didn’t speak the whole car ride—there were no questions, reminiscences, or jokes. How could Will speak? Jimmy had tried to mumble a sorry and manage a smile, but Will wasn’t responsive. Though Will could tell that Jimmy was sincere, that his sympathy wasn’t feigned, it didn’t matter to Will. How could it? Jack had let someone else know of Will’s presence, of his existence.

When Will opens the door, he finds Alana sitting on his couch, an old friend at her feet. Winston, who he hadn’t seen in so long, barked a hello to him, tail wagging and big eyes shining brightly like the warm sun. For a split second, he felt the cool comfort of the past on his skin. In his old friend, he felt home. Winston rushed to Will, placing his head under Will’s still hand. He pets him immediately, the soft fur feeling like relief against his fingertips.

Alana stares at him, a pitying smile on her lips. He can see the anger and disappointment in her eyes, like a mother disappointed by her unruly child. She chastises him wordlessly at first, trying to find the words to say to him.

Will begins first, grunting, “Alana.” He nods his head at her and walks to the kitchen—he needs to avoid eye contact now.

“Will,” she responds breathily. There’s heartbreak in her voice, the kind for an old friend gone astray. To her, Will was more similar to a drug addict on relapse, than anything else. She saw the withdrawal painting itself on the wrinkles of his skin—Hannibal Lecter fleeing from his veins. And while it’s poison, Alana knows, to Will it is an elixir of immortality and love, breathing life and excitement into his being. She wishes she could cry for him, but this was not the Will she had known before. This was an altered man, maybe a shell now, whom she couldn’t care for in the same way. Pity, however, she could manage. Out of it, she finds anger as well, that he’s left in this state. Destroyed. “I’m here to satisfy a professional curiosity,” she tells him.

“To therapize me,” he spits out, pouring a glass of whiskey into a short glass. He wonders if he should plink a few ice cubes in the amber liquid but decides against it. He wants to feel the burn of the liquor slide down his throat and tickle his tongue, to remind him of the feel of Hannibal’s mouth. Spicy, warm, inviting. Dangerous.

“We have a person in common,” Alana continues. “This could be therapeutic for me too.”

“Jack asked you to be here,” Will concludes. “You’re just taking this opportunity to poke at my mind. You’re not going to like what you find…” Another glass of whiskey poured, he sits across from her, Winston jumping next to him.

“I had to take care of him,” Alana offers. “The one stray I couldn’t let go.”

“Margot must have resented that. You couldn’t let go of this one detail, this one piece of your former life—a reminder of Will Graham.”

“But I was right to not get involved with you.” She spreads her arms, motioning at the mess his home had become. “And it would have only made Hannibal upset, I’ve come to conclude.”

“When you were dating, did you know he was in love with me? Or was it easier to believe that you were the apple of his eye?” He strokes Winston as he speaks, leaning back into the couch.

“I found it hard to believe,” she manages to tell him. “I should have known better; the signs were clear. I didn’t think it was reciprocated on your part.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Will affirms. He eyes her carefully. “You think Hannibal broke me.”

“I think Hannibal pushed the right buttons that caused the right reaction for your unique psychological brand to finally burst into fruition. I think he was in love with the idea of you transforming into a murderer. He saw possibility in your empathy. He exploited you, Will. He is exploiting you.”

“I feel free now. Unchained. I always hid before, Alana,” Will sobs as he speaks. “With Hannibal, I don’t hide in the shadows.”

“What you two have is not love,” Alana tells him, leaning forward, resting her hands over her thighs. “Neither of you are capable of love.”

“How could you know, when you’re not in either of our minds?” Will places the whiskey on the floor. “Because Hannibal could not love you? Who tried to woo him since you were his mentee? It is hard to make Hannibal love.”

“Even so, it is not a healthy expression of love. It’s madness and murder. It’ll swallow you whole and spit you back out. What if Hannibal decideds he’s done playing his game with you?” Alana lets tears drip from her face now, sorrow for her old friend mauling at her. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel for so long, to be disturbed by Hannibal and Will. But this was too close, too personal now. She couldn’t hold it in. “You’re changed irreversibly. You can’t go back to the Will of five, six years ago.”

“I don’t want to,” Will manages. “I’ve finally seen the world through Hannibal’s eyes, and it’s beautiful. What you and Jack see is a monster. He’s more like a fallen angel, placed on earth to do what others can’t. You couldn’t possibly understand,” Will speaks quickly through flustered words and twitchy motions. “And I didn’t want to understand for so long, because I was afraid of what understand him would mean. But there’s a beauty to what Hannibal does, to how he thinks. Like a chilled vintage wine, it requires a specific taste, a specific nose. You have to find all of its notes, its layers. And you are a beer person.”

“Normal people shouldn’t understand. You and Hannibal, you’re outliers of the world’s socially acceptable. What you do, what he does—people would have you strapped to the electric chair. Exterminated like pests. Is it worth it? Is Hannibal worth it?”

“Yes,” Will says firmly. “Yes.”


	40. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Billie Eilish--Bad Guy

Chapter 38

January 27th, 2020: Memphis, Tennessee

Clarice finds herself in unfamiliar surroundings, blinking open her eyes. “Dr. Lecter?” she cries out, remembering that his is the last face she had seen. She feels used, taken advantage of psychologically. The manipulations Hannibal had put her through, her devotion to him—she feels raw and damaged.

“Did you sleep well?” Hannibal speaks, sitting on the bed adjacent from hers, reading a book. “You’ve been out for some time now.”

“What did you give me?” she spits, hot tears streaming down her face. She struggles to sit up, her arms shaking against the bed. When she turns to see him, she sees Hannibal stare back at her.

_His eyes glow red with bloodlust that terrifies her. When he speaks, his mouth is replaced by one filled with fangs and tongue licking his cherry red lips. His skin is black and smooth, like the skin of a shark instead of a snake. His fingers are tipped with long, sharp claws that pierce that pages of the book he’s holding. The antlers atop is head look like a crown for the demonic creature, instilling terror in the pit of her stomach. She opens her mouth to scream, but she finds that she can’t make the sound, the image rendering her mute._

Clarice blinks again, watching the good doctor put his book on the bed. “Don’t come near me,” she demands, reaching for her gun but it’s nowhere to be found.

“I found that you lied to me,” Hannibal tells her. “You lied to Will Graham, too. You have such skill; it’s a pity you used it for the wrong side.”

“The whole story was bullshit, something I imagined up to catch your interest. Jack told me not to tell you anything real. That’s how you would get me. I didn’t know you could make me believe the lies.”

“Like how I made you believe you were Mischa; strange, how much you look like her.” Hannibal picks up a scalpel from the nightstand between the beds. “It’s a shame, really.”

“I was protecting myself,” Clarice counters, the room beginning to spin. “They all say you’re a monster, cruel, incapable of remorse or guilt. They’re wrong. I’ve seen you with Will Graham. You’re more than what they make you out to be. You form attachment, you experience love. You don’t—you won’t hurt me. You’ve somehow bonded to something about me. Maybe I—I look too much like her.”

Hannibal takes her hand into his own, stroking it delicately, his eyes softening at the sight of her. He wishes it were her, that it were Mischa. “God plays cruel jokes on us, giving each of us seven doppelgangers. We have to remember, though, that no matter what our eyes say they are deceived as Descartes has shown.” He takes the scalpel and cuts through her pink finger, laying limp in his hand. “The fact remains, this is your finger. Not the one of the sister I buried in Lithuania.” He places it in his mouth gently, suckling on the blood-soaked nub as if it’s a lollipop.

“Please,” Clarice chokes out at first, looking into his eyes. “Is this to go against Jack? To make me into another Miriam Lass. Are you going to send me to him piece by piece?”

“It’s to teach you a lesson,” Hannibal says, taking the finger out of his mouth. “The next time I ask you a question—don’t lie. I believe that’s all the time we have together, for now, Clarice,” he bends down and places a kiss on her forehead, a lingering shiver sent through her body at the sensation.

The door is broken down suddenly, Jack running through the entrance. Clarice stares out at Jack with watery eyes, pleading. Hannibal steps away from the bed, a smile on his face. His places his hands behind his head, watching Jack with a fire in his eyes that conveys that Hannibal, caught, had won.

“You might be able to reattach the finger if you put it in ice quickly,” Hannibal instructs. “Or, I’d be able to, with proper sterilization, reattach it for her,” Hannibal smiles wide, his crooked teeth on display.

“Call an ambulance,” Jack shouts at the agents around him. He doesn’t give Hannibal the pleasure of a single word. He stares into those cruel eyes that suck him in like a black hole. Jack comes around Hannibal, placing his hands in handcuffs. 

As they leave the room, Jack holding Hannibal’s hands behind his back, Hannibal looks back at Jack, blowing him a kiss. “Next time, our reunion will be at the dinner table,” Hannibal whispers low. “I hope you’ll bring your appetite.”

January 28th, 2020: Wolf Trap, Virginia

_“Will?” Hannibal whispers into his back, pressing a kiss on his neck. “You’ve had too much to drink last night. Didn’t we decide you’ll try to reduce your alcohol consumption?”_

_Will turns, his head pounding. He faces Hannibal, who has sadness in his eyes. It’s too difficult to look at him now; before he’d told himself that the drinking had been to forget Hannibal. Now, what was it for? “Progress isn’t linear,” Will argues, instead._

_“Your progress isn’t upward, either,” Hannibal says._

_Will sits up from the bed, putting his head in his hands. “Don’t therapize me in the morning,” he mutters._

_“You’re becoming a bit like your alcoholic father,” Hannibal taunts. “I thought you wanted to run away from that life?”_

_“A low blow,” Will spits out, turning with bloodshot eyes to the man who’s transformed, snakeskin and yellow eyes. Hannibal licks his sharp teeth, his pupils dilating. Will jumps backwards, his back hitting the bed._

_Hannibal stands from the bed, nude. “We need to face the truth.” Hannibal rustles through Will’s kitchen, searching. The sound of a knife slicing rings in Will’s ears. “I have to be honest with you,” Hannibal tells him._

_“I’m fine,” Will argues back, his hands gripping the bed sheets now. “I’ll be fine.”_

_Hannibal returns with an apple on a plate and sits on the bed next to Will. “It’ll make you feel better.”_

_Will shakes his head, distrust boiling up in his stomach. “I think I just need a glass of water.”_

_“If you would like to get rid of me sooner, you know what they say… An apple a day…” Hannibal whispers, offering the apple again to Will._

_Will nods slowly, irritated. He bites into the apple, staring into Hannibal, who disappears. Before him his room erupts in gushes of blood and gobs of human appendages, organs, and bone. Will becomes swallowed in the vast sea of crimson, choking on the liquid. He reaches out, bobbing up and down, shouting. But he gives up, letting the blood swallow him—he closes his eyes._

“Will?” Alana calls out to him, placing a wet rag on his forehead.

Will gasps for air as he wakes up, blue eyes meeting blue. “Alana” Will sighs.

“You were having a nightmare. You’re burning up,” she tells him, feeling the side of his face. “Are you sick?”

Will shakes his head, reaching out for a bottle he’s kept under his pillow since he’d returned to Wolf Trap. The pills have sat untouched since the last prescription. He pops them open, swallowing a few. “I can’t say this feels like a home anymore,” he says calmly. “Sometimes uncomfortable surroundings give us nightmares.” But Will knows the edges of encephalitis are nipping at his bones again, further sending him into instability. He wonders how long it’ll be before he’s unrecognizable to the people he’d known before. At least now, he could trick them into believe he hadn’t strayed so far.

“You were calling for Hannibal,” Alana tells him, a frown splayed across her face. “They’ve arrested him last night.” Alana wishes she could pluck Will out of the world he’d sunken into. She would force him into care, if she could. But she couldn’t care for him; it would hurt her. She couldn’t save Will from himself.

“Is it on the news?” Will asks, sighing. He knows what they will call him. _“Hannibal the cannibal captured again.”_ Freddie Lounds would have a field day, newly inspired and speculating about the whereabouts of Hannibal’s partner in love and murder. Will gulps, his stomach shifting nervously within him.

Alana nods, looking away. Winston sits in the corner, waiting for his food. “I have to feed him and take him for a walk.” She sighs, hoping that she could bare to watch over him longer. This is difficult for her, keeping an eye on him. But she came back to protect him, just as she always had before—she wonders if Margot is right. If she’s still, at least in part, in love with Will Graham. If she squinted hard enough, she could still see a ghost of him left.

“Let me,” Will tells her, sitting up from the bed. “It’s been so long.” He smiles at Winston who wags his tail in the corner.

“The world doesn’t know that you’re here. It’s better if you don’t,” she counters, standing from the bed. She shifts awkwardly, stepping further away from Will.

“You don’t know what they’re going to do with me. Or You don’t want to think about it.” Will tells her. “But I know Jack’s going to want to charge me for aiding and abetting, at least. Anything worse if he can get more evidence.”

“You’re a victim in this. Of Jack, of Hannibal.” Alana sighs, looking away from him. “You’re not guilty. You’ve been manipulated.”

“I chose this!” Will finally yells at Alana. “I chose Hannibal, no matter how much you can’t live with that fact. You want to think that somewhere past the instability is a good heart. I’m not a good man,” Will finally says to her, her voice low. “I’m the bad guy.”

“Then why did you run away?” Alana asks, throwing the leash to the ground. “If you’re so irreparably broken and damaged, why after finally choosing Hannibal—did you come back?”

“Because I thought like you,” Will begins. “I wanted to think that Hannibal wasn’t an inevitability. I thought I became so consumed by him that I had become him. I hunted the Chesapeake Ripper for years. I thought about Hannibal for years. I resented him for it. I wanted—I wanted to find myself. I didn’t want to be his perfect vision, his masterpiece.” Will looks out through the window, the sun shining through it. He feels his heart sink in his chest. “I tried for most of my life to be with the good guys, because I knew who I was since I was young. I fought for so long—but everyone you tried to protect me from was right. I am a murderer. That’s why I understand it all. I see something so alluring about that world that I can’t live without it. It’s my world too.”

Alana stares at Will, her mouth agape. She wishes she had words to say to him, but they fail her.

“He may drive me insane, but I thrive on it,” Will finally says. “By your laws, I deserve to be wherever he is. You should go—get Margot and Morgan and leave. If Hannibal escapes, he’ll try to close loose ends before we disappear.”

“You’re better than him,” Alana concludes.

“I’m worse for standing beside him,” Will says as he gets out of the bed, walking over to Winston. He scratches Winston behind his ears, the sound of the door shutting. He couldn’t watch her walk away. His phone rings then, an unknown number on the screen.

He knew whose voice he’d hear on the other end, though he didn’t want to. Before the unknown number had come as a bittersweet surprise, their arguments and separation a game. It was a manipulation for Hannibal to admit his wrongs. He’d led Hannibal into this now, leaving the man he’d fought so hard to help escape now behind bars again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Buffalo Bill, scenes in that great glass dome of the Memphis Courthouse from the movie, and a phone call between Will and Hannibal.


	41. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice pays a visit to Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 1975--Medicine

Chapter 39

February 3rd, 2020: Memphis Tennessee

Hannibal finds pure white to be a psychologically oppressive color. It’s why he seldom wears it. He chooses to opt for creams and beige, instead. They’re more soothing to the eye. He can’t dress himself now, forced to wear matching white shirt and pants. He realizes it must make him look puffy. It’s distasteful. He sighs, sitting down at the desk and chair he is provided with, and stares out at the bars. He aches for something to do, to have his fingers move. Forced stillness is maddening.

He lies in wait, caged in a temporary enclosure. The hours tick by, turning into several days. He wonders why they haven’t moved him from the Tennessee Courthouse, before he realizes that they don’t know where to put him. A smile spreads across his lips, and satisfied, he lets himself walk through the halls of him mind palace. He chooses to remember the opera, a soprano singing as a songbird, a stray tear falling from Will’s cheek.

“Knock, knock,” he hears, drawing him out of his mind palace.

“A pleasant surprise,” he responds, Clarice walking towards him. He stands from his chair and places a record on the record player. Chopin’s nocturns sing out from the bell. “Records have a certain reminiscent quality to them. I can almost imagine sitting down in a chaise, a glass of merlot in hand… Do you like Chopin, Clarice?” He grips the bars of the cage with his hands, the cool feel of the metal against his skin.

“Who doesn’t like Chopin?” Clarice responds, a wry smile on her lips. “I have a proposition.”

“I do too. Mine first,” he teases. “I want to know what’s in the bag.”

“You think I brought something for you?” Clarice asks, taking a step back. She grips the large handbag that sits on her left hip.

“The guards wouldn’t let you in with a bag, unless you have something to give me. Something harmless. A trade without consequences.”

Clarice slowly reaches into her bag and pulls out a roll of parchment and charcoal. “You like to draw.”

“I prefer pencil sharpened with a scalpel, but charcoal can suffice.”

She slides the paper between the bars, and Hannibal takes it from her, stroking her reattached index finger as he does. “Any pain?” he asks her, concern spreading over his face.

She shakes her head, “You sucked all the pain out of it,” she spits back.

“Tsk, tsk.” He places the parchment and charcoal on the desk, looking at his feet. “You can be very harsh. Intelligent, bold, conniving. I wonder if that’s why Jack chose you. A combination of Will Graham and Miriam Lass…” Hannibal lulls out. “Your proposition, then?”

“We need a name. Buffalo Bill,” Clarice begins, hugging the purse in front of her. “We’ve arranged for your transport to a mental hospital in Sacramento. You will have whatever amenities you desire, supervised visits, and access to a piano. We think the offer is more than generous.”

“You think I can be tempted with taste,” he responds flatly. “Louis Friend.”

“Louis Friend?” she repeats.

****

February 3rd, 2020: Wolf Trap, Virginia

The unknown number flashes on his screen once more. He expects the same as before, silence on the other end. Will has started doubting that it’s Hannibal. Perhaps it’s a prank, some kid dialing a random number. He doesn’t pick up the phone.

The second time it rings out, Will feels tempted to throw it into the wall. He answers it anyway, “Why?” Will asks, seething.

“Why what?” Hannibal’s voice responds on the other end.

Will sighs into the phone. “They’re monitoring the call,” Will tells him.

He knows that Hannibal is nodding on the other end of the line. “I have nothing left to lose,” Hannibal notes, speaking slowly into the phone.

“I’m going to stand trial in two weeks. I’m under house arrest,” Will tells him then. “Jack left word this morning. He’s up at Quantico again. Two weeks,” Will laughs bitterly. “Just enough time to poke a fork in my brain for any last thoughts on Buffalo Bill.”

“I manipulated you, Will,” Hannibal tells him then. “You haven’t been thinking clearly. As a psychiatrist, I would advise you to think about your relations with me. How do they affect you?”

“Don’t do this, Hannibal,” Will tells him on the other end of the line, clutching the phone until his knuckles turn white. “You know that I—”

“I used my status as your unofficial psychiatrist to meld you. I took away everyone who you loved so that only I would remain. I pushed until you folded.” Hannibal insists. “I wish I could apologize, but it wouldn’t be sufficient. Goodbye, Will.”

The line clicks undramatically followed by a droning sound. Will presses the phone harder into his ear, thinking that if he listened hard enough, he’d find Hannibal’s voice on the other end of the line whispering sweet words into his ears.

He knows his lawyer would pull up the recording, playing the words again for Will to hear. He wishes he could run, far from Wolf Trap to the small apartment he and Hannibal had spoken about purchasing. He wishes he could transport himself there, to Paris above the music store, and lean out of the window to find Hannibal on the streets smiling up at him.

****

February 3rd, 2020: Belvedere, Ohio

The high heels make her ankles ache, but she continues to wear them because they make her feel empowered. Each click of her heels is like a boom that spreads through a room, demanding attention. She powders her face carefully, brushing away the excess.

_Beautiful._ She tells herself, smiling in the mirror.

When she looks into it once more, only then does she notice the stubble on her face. It feels rough under her fingertip—she wishes she could rip her skin off. She begins to rub, the powder transferring onto her hands.

Rosy cheeks fall off.

Mascara smudges.

And slowly she regresses into what she was before, stubble and short hair, wig lying on the ground. A sharp jawline and thin lips surrounded by smudged lipstick stares back at her. _I am not that. I am not that. I am not that._ A low sob rips through her throat as she throws off the heels.

“Come here, Precious,” she calls out. “Precious!”


	42. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice confronts Hannibal. Quid pro quo...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt J: Breezeblocks

February 4th, 2020: Memphis Tennessee

“You’re quite funny, truly,” Clarice begins, storming up to the cage Hannibal Lecter is being kept in. “Hilarious. Do you hate it when your jokes go unnoticed? I bet it really miffs you.”

“I once dined on a dumb cow for a poorly received joke,” Hannibal quips, his back turned to Clarice. “However, this attitude doesn’t suit you, Clarice. Quite fiery, today, aren’t we?”

“Louis Friend? Really? An anagram for iron sulfide, fool’s gold. Do you take us for fool’s, Hannibal?”

Hannibal only smiles to himself, putting a record on the record player. “Do you remember our talk when you retrieved Benjamin Raspail’s preserved head?”

Clarice inhales through her nostrils, clutching the bag at her side. “You asked me what I want from you. It’s taken me some time, to figure it out. I would like to know you, Clarice. Not the fabricated version, but the unaltered truth. Quid pro quo.”

Clarice bights her tongue, thinking. If she reveals herself to Hannibal, it will make her vulnerable. And yet, she had already been vulnerable to him in Canada under a lie. She isn’t so afraid of him now, with him behind bars and her standing on the other side. She even pities him, a specimen locked up in a cage. He is no zoo animal, but rather something more. She wonders if a simple cage can contain him.

She gulps, her throat bobbing up and back down. “Alright, then.”

“What the worst memory of childhood?”

“The death of my father,” she manages to mumble.

“Tell me. Don’t lie, or I’ll know.” He turns around, standing from his seat, and walks to her. He kneels on the floor of the cage so that his eyes are level with hers. “Go on, Clarice. Don’t make it up as you go. The mouth of the just bringeth forth wisdom: but the froward tongue shall be cut out.” Hannibal licks his lips, watching her intently.

“He was a town marshal… one night he surprised two burglars, coming out the back of a drugstore… They shot him.” Clarice look away, unable to stare into the deathly black pits that bore into her sole. Those certainly were not eyes, but rather the gates of hell which welcome her with sincerity and acceptance.

“Killed outright?”

“No. He was strong, he lasted almost a month. My mother - died when I was very young, so my father had become—the whole world to me... After he left me, I had nobody. I was ten years old.” She looks at him again now. “Quid pro quo, doctor.”

“Not yet. I’ve given you and Jack so much through Will, already. A debt must be paid.” The music changes, the rumble of Nessun Dorma echoing through the room. “After your father’s death, you were orphaned. What happened next?”

“I went to live with my mother’s cousin and her husband in Montana. They had a ranch.”

“A cattle ranch?”

“Horses—and sheep,” Clarice stutters.

“How long did you live there?”

“Two months.”

“Why so briefly?” Hannibal smiles at her, curious.

“I—ran away.”

“Why, Clarice? Why did you run away from that ranch?”

“There is no time for this, Doctor Lecter!” Clarice exclaims, angry.

“He’s taken another victim, hasn’t he? Who’s missing Clarice?”

“Catherine Martin,” Clarice sighs, glancing past Hannibal and at the record player.

“The senator’s daughter? Freddie Lounds must be having a field day.” Hannibal places his fingers through the bars of the cage, taking Clarice’s chin by his fingertips. He forces her to look him in the eyes. “The end of the story, please.”

“And—one morning I just—ran away,” she tells him simply, shrugging her shoulders.

“Not “just,” Clarice. What set you off? You started what time?”  
“Early. Still dark.”

“Then something woke you. What? Did you dream…? What was it?” Hannibal fills in.

“I heard a strange sound… I didn’t know. I went to look.” Clarice covers her face with her hands, rubbing the wateriness of her eyes away. “Screaming! Some kind of screaming, like a child’s voice,” she stammers.

“What did you do?”

“Got dressed without turning on the light. I went downstairs, outside. I crept up to the barn. I was so scared to looking inside—but I had to.”

“And what did you see, Clarice?”

“Lambs. The lambs were screaming. “

“They were slaughtering the spring lambs?”

“Yes. They were screaming.” Clarice sees the images running past her closed eyes as if she is a child again, ten years old. She’s almost in a trance, unable to return to the present until her story is finished.

“So you ran away.”

“No. First I tried to free them. I opened the gate of their pen, but they wouldn’t run,” she moans in despair. “They just stood there, confused.”

“But you could. You did.”

“I took one lamb. And I ran away, as fast as I could. I didn’t get more than a few miles before the sheriff’s car found me. The ranger was so angry he sent me to live at the Lutheran orphanage in Bozeman. I never saw the ranch again.”

“But what became of your lamb, Clarice?” Hannibal watches her intently, holding on for one last response. Clarice doesn’t answer him. “You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? Wake up in the dark, with the lambs screaming?”

“Yes…” she chokes out.

“Do you think if you saved Catherine, you could make them stop..? Do you think, if Catherine lives, you won’t wake up n the dark, ever again, to the screaming of the lambs? Do you…?”

“Yes! I don’t know.”

Hannibal nods then, “Thank you Clarice.”

Despite the bars, Clarice feels as if there is no space between her and Hannibal. She is unprotected, weak—she knows her mistake. She is in his hands now, prey to him. She may live, but her secrets would never be free again. “Quid pro quo,” she demands, handing him a stack of files.

“I am a man of my word.”

****

February 4th, 2020: Belvedere, Ohio

“You are much too ugly,” she tells herself in the mirror. She has no long hair, nor makeup. She lacks completely. And she is aware.

But the pretty skin that lies on it, it does not deserve. She knows.

The pretty skin that peels away like cloth, she’ll use.

And it will scream and scream, little pretty shouts.

For the little pretty death that’ll give her what she needs.

“Quiet down!” she shouts, stomping through basement, dank and rancid.

“Why are you doing this to me, mister!” Catherine shouts, hot and fat tears flowing down her cheeks.

“The lotion,” she shouts, shaking her head, “put it on.”

“Mister, my family will pay whatever. Just let me go. They’ll give you more money than you can imagine.”

“Moisture is important for pretty girls,” she sings back, barring her teeth. “Stop your fucking crying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter Will be more Will and Hannibal centric.   
> Follow me on twitter @malipomfrit


	43. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will talks with his lawyer, refusing to use Hannibal Lecter in his defense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt Maeson--I Just Don't Care That Much

Chapter 41

February 7th, 2020: Alexandria, Virginia

Will sits across from his lawyer in an office that’s too small. The claustrophobic unease settles in the pit of his stomach, making him nauseous. His lawyer is a stout, portly man, who finds himself unable to look at Will. It’s his first trip outside of his home in quite some time, and Will feels as if it isn’t worth it. He’s only allowed to leave him home to see his lawyer, FBI cars transporting him from Wolf Trap to Alexandria.

“Have you thought about our conversation?” his lawyer, Roy Novak, grunts. “From last night?”

“It’s not an option.”

“You aren’t being offered a plea deal. You have no other defense. The jury will slaughter you.”

“It is untrue,” Will spits back. It most certainly is—that Will hadn’t escaped with Hannibal of his own volition. The claim stings.

Mr. Novak leans forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk. He begins with a sigh, calculated and intimidating. “Whatever you say here, it stays here. But let’s be honest. You were an FBI agent. Jack Crawford trusted you.”

“And what does Jack say now?” Will laughs bitterly. “I’ve got one too many lose screws. It was a matter of time before I fell apart, letting everything spill out. Not everything was good.”

“On the contrary. Jack believes Hannibal manipulated you. Alana Bloom alleges the same. Your ex-wife, Molly Hooper, is also willing to testify.”

“Wife… We never divorced,” Will looks away from his lawyer, examining the dusty bookshelves to his right.

“Your marriage was annulled. I’m sorry to break it to you.”

“Don’t be.” Will leans forward, clasping his hands together, a perfect mirror of his lawyer. “Does it bother you that I know what you’re thinking? You would love to kick me out of this office. You think the case is hopeless. The body language doesn’t scare me. I’ve got sharp teeth. I can handle you.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Graham?”

Will shakes his head. “It’s a statement. I will not use Hannibal Lecter as my defense.”

“We have a phone call in which he confesses—”

“No.” The words still echo in Will’s head, Hannibal broken voice on the other end of the phone, _“I used my status as your unofficial psychiatrist to meld you. I took away everyone who you loved so that only I would remain. I pushed until you folded.”_

He wonders if Hannibal knew the power of his words, how they would splinter Will’s heart. He breathes in deeply, the pendulum swinging, searching for a design. They are on the first floor. The lawyer peeks to his left every so often. Will smiles. Roy Novak is a pretentious man, enjoying the fanciful things in life. He writes in calligraphy pen, an ostentatious presentation to convey elegance and importance. So few people use those pens anymore.

“Your pen is beautiful,” Will compliments, eyeing the tip of it.

“We aren’t here to talk about my pen.” Another deep breath, strained. “I cannot defend you if you do not want to be defended.”

“I’m glad we have an understanding.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“How rude, Mr. Novak.” A smile curls on the edges of Will’s lips, mischievous. “Crass language doesn’t suit you. It looks ill dressed up in a suit and tie.”

Will swipes the pen from the desk, lunging forward and Mr. Novak. Will knows enough, where the write vein is. He stabs Mr. Novak in the neck in one fell swoop, without giving him the chance to so much as scream. The silence is enough to satisfy Will whose eyes glow tinged with red.

With red stained hands, Will jumps through the window, the fall barely a few feet. In a rush, ignoring the people, the wind slamming against his face—he runs.

February 8th, 2020: Moosehead Lake, Maine

Will sits in the chair where he had sat long ago, remembering how Wally used to sit at the table on the under end of the room, doing homework. He wonders if Wally had thought he was strange, a weird stepfather.

The home is empty, but Will knows it’s still inhabited. The air is too warm, the furniture too clean. He sits in the chair, waiting carefully for hours. It doesn’t surprise him when the screen door creaks open around noon, Molly coming home for her lunch break.

She falls back against the door, panting, at the sight of Will. “Wally’s going to be home in two hours!”  
“No hello?” Will states plainly. “We were married.”

“That doesn’t exist anymore.” She gulps. “Why? Why here?”

“No one would suspect. My lawyer said you were willing to testify that Hannibal brainwashed me.”

“I said I think he did. That I was willing to testify—it’s a stretch.”

“You aren’t calling the police.”

“You aren’t attacking me.”

Will nods, standing from the couch. “I’m not going to. I’m not senseless.” Will watches as the tears form in Molly’s eyes, though she tries to hold her composure. It’s not easy for her—Will can feel the pain is if it’s his own. It twists his heart as if it’s a wet rag, tears forming in his own eyes. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“I don’t want you here.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You were a good man.”

“I was never a good man. You saw what you wanted to see.” Inhale. Exhale. He tries to find some balance. “Is Wally coping?”

“You don’t have any right to ask that.”

“You still live here.”

“Until I pay off enough of the mortgage to move. I never thought you’d come back.”

“You didn’t want me to. Even after the Red Dragon… We were done then.” Will walks toward her, carefully. “I stole a car and drove ten miles from here. I walked the rest of the way. It’s only a matter of time before they find the car and put the pieces together. I need the pickup, the old one that’s registered under the neighbor’s name still. You didn’t change the title, yet?”

Molly shakes her head. “It has a full tank of gas.”

“Wait three hours before calling the police. Hit yourself over the head. Claim that I assaulted you. I’m going to find Jack.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t have any other options.” Will reaches his hand out, palm facing upwards. “Please.”

She nods hesitantly. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

The key falls into his hand, cold but filled with hope. “I understand.”

****

When the police come, Molly is battered and bruised in the home. Dry blood sticks to her forehead, her hair tangled on the right side of her head where she had fallen, supposedly. Wally isn’t home; she texted him to go to a friend’s house. She’s thankful for that, that Wally won’t have to know.

The policeman sits across from her, notepad in hand. “Did your ex-husband tell you where he was going?”

She grinds her teeth, staring at the floor. “He’s going to kill Jack Crawford. He-he took a car. I don’t know the plate. It’s old. I had a sheet over it for months. White pickup. I don’t know the make. He bought it years ago.”

“It’s okay. Just try to think,” the cop reassures her. “Every detail you can provide us is helpful.”

She shouldn’t lie. She knows.

But she does, because of a dull ache in her heart, for someone she once loved. She knew he never loved her, but even so, she still loved him. She loved him for how he understood Wally, for how he helped Wally come out of his shell. She loved him because he also loved dogs and didn’t mind if they had a million of them in the home. And his sweet smile, so ironic. Will Graham is not a good man. But he was the man she had chosen, some time ago. She couldn’t let that go. So, she tells the police officer only half truths. That the pickup truck isn’t white but is more a shade of beige. That she doesn’t remember the license plate, which isn’t entirely false. She doesn’t remember the first three numbers and she doesn’t have the insurance to fish out to remember it all anyway.

She tells them where to look, regardless of whether Will would be there. Though, she has the faintest suspicion that that is the first lie Will had told her in their time of knowing each other—that Will would go after Jack Crawford.


	44. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Kaleo-Broken Bones (highly recommended) 
> 
> Short chapter, I'm sorry. I don't have it in me to write longer chapters right now. I'll try to update again soon.

Chapter 42

It’s strange to think of himself here, in Memphis. Hannibal is in the air, and Will knows this because the air is tinged with copper. It falls on his tongue like flakes of snow, delicious. He imagines how he would lap it up off of Hannibal’s skin, the two of them emerging from this tumultuous time period, somehow stronger. He can picture them standing over a hill made of the rude, Jack Crawford at the top of the gruesome pile. They would sit on thrones made of bone and painted in blood drenched varnish, a testament. He would be, forever, at Hannibal’s side.

Because that phone call was no rejection. It was a plea, perhaps. Or more accurately, it was an affirmation—that Hannibal wants Will, too. Irrevocably. Will drove in the dead of the night, disregarding the speed limit because what kind of law concerning speed would apply to him any longer? He is, and always will be, criminal of criminals, perverted Murder Husband of the Hannibal Lecter, title etched into history. Traffic laws, ha.

In the dead of the night, none of it mattered, anyway. He manifests in Memphis almost, as if time doesn’t exist, landing there at the very strike of dawn, the glow of the pink and orange sky bathing his silhouette. His feet are heavier than anvils, striking the earth in determination. The courthouse is no terrifying phantom, it is instead a rude prison, who walls he would shatter. He takes the first step in, head tipped downwards, glass door shutting behind him.

He doesn’t need to think. His finger pulls the trigger smoothly as if the rifle is an extension of his hand. The sound is almost deafening, but he wills himself to hear past the bullets instead listening to the operatic screaming around him. Puccini himself would stand in awe at the melody. The bodies thumping onto the ground like the thunderous booms of a timpani drum, the scream of the woman the quiver of a piccolo ripping through the orchestra—and then, the last guard at the door, song bird of song birds, la prima donna sings her first and last note, vibrato screeching. His rifle a conductor’s baton, he sets it in his back pocket, and stops for a moment, breathing in. He should take a bow, but there are none of his deserved applause now. A pity.

When Will enters, Hannibal is standing, covered in blood, in front of his masterpiece. Hung from Hannibal’s metal cage is an orderly, displayed as a moth. He smiles at Will, eyes growing watery. In his chest, his heart thumps out, a feeling of ecstasy over taking him.

“I take it that I’m late to the party?” Will asks then, grinning.

“You’re fashionably late, however. And one might argue your timing couldn’t be better.” Hannibal steps towards Will, taking him into his arms. “I’ve missed you.”

Bach’s Goldberg variations ring out in the background, filling the room. They let themselves fall into it for a moment, holding onto each other for dear life. “The FBI will be here, when they realize I’m not heading towards Quantico.”

“You’ll have to fill me in later, darling,” Hannibal whispers, breathing in the scent of Will.

“We’ll go through the elevator. Let’s go.”

Hannibal nods, taking Will’s hand into his own, as they run.

****

Clarice steps into the metal cage, blood splattering it. The scent of it makes her cringe. Nevertheless, she powers on, searching. The file is open on Hannibal’s desk, his elaborate scrawl over pieces of paper. She closes the file to find on its front, “We covet what we see everyday.” She hums, taking the file into her large purse.

She knows that the previous time she’s seen Hannibal Lecter would be the very last, that this giant ghost which followed her through Canada and the U.S. would no longer physically haunt her. Even so, she sees his crooked smile whenever she closes her eyes, and hears his softly accented voice whispering to her. It brings her to tears, the sound of lambs screaming overtaking the sound of Hannibal’s voice.

She wishes she could make it stop.

****

Jack Crawford sits across from Molly, arms crossed. “I need one reason why I shouldn’t have you taken away in handcuffs, right now.”

“I told the cops exactly what Will Graham told me.”

“Will Graham kill his lawyer and drove to Maine to find you. And you believe that he told you the truth?” Jacks shouts at her, his face reddening in anger.

“No. No, of course he wouldn’t. But it would be stupid—we both know, believing that Will Graham would be anywhere other than rushing to Hannibal Lecter’s side. Hasn’t he proven that enough times? Over sanity and reason, he would choose him?” Molly cries out, bursting into tears, hot and wet against her cheeks. “And what if he chose to take your head with him?”

Jack sighs out, opening his mouth as the phone rings. He picks it up, eyeing her carefully, mouthing _stay here_. Jack pulls his cellphone out of his pocket, answering as he leaves the office.

_“Hannibal Lecter is gone,”_ Clarice tells him on the other end of the line. _“Ten guards are dead.”_

“I need a good reason why you’re wasting your time not finding them, right now.”

_“Them?”_ Clarice questions. _“Will Graham… We came an hour late, Jack. They’re not here. They won’t be anywhere near here. Hannibal left clues to find Buffalo Bill.”_

“You want to redirect our attentions to Buffalo Bill? I’m not the student, here. What the fuck has gotten into your head?”

_“I know we can catch him. Can we catch Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter? Right now? With ten men down, and who knows how many others left as carnage?”_

Jack breathes into the phone, slowly, grounding himself. “Fine. I’ll assign someone else to Graham and Lecter.”

_“His name is Louis Fiend,”_ Clarice manages to squeeze in before Jack disconnects the call.

Angrily, Jack stuffs his phone in his back pocket, entering to find Molly still in her chair. “We’ll get you in witness protection. Get you a new place. You and Wally can start over. We’ll assign you four guards to keep watch.”

“He’s gotten Lecter out, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”


	45. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal escape from the courthouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Jaymes Young--I'll Be Good
> 
> Since I can't bring myself to write longer chapters, I will try to update this fic more frequently. So far so good?

Hannibal grips the steering wheel in his hand tightly, feeling the roughness of it against his soft palms. Schoenberg fills the small space of the car like a thick, poignant cosmic soup. They're both lost in the melody. It speaks to them in soft whispers between the notes. _This is only the beginning._ A light passage comes, allowing Hannibal to return his mind to the road for a second. That is, before he hears the sound of Will's breathing, the beat of his heart. He knows Will is drowning in it—in the music. They haven’t managed to speak much to each other since leaving the courthouse. Will was determined to help Hannibal escape. He hadn’t thought much about what would happen afterwards. Hannibal’s heart heaves, realizing that he’s all too aware of this. Will only wants Hannibal so much. Does he want Hannibal fully? Hannibal isn't sure, himself. He would want Will to want him. You cannot impose your want on others, Hannibal reminds himself.

The violin sings out, a quiver. Hannibal inhales sharply, his eyes watering. What had all of this been for, if not for Will? Hannibal isn’t sure any longer. Was it to toy with the FBI in their search for Buffalo Bill? Was it to have Will transform under his guiding hand? Neither of these seem satisfactory to Hannibal, not any longer. Not when Will stares out from the window at the blur of trees passing them. The forest unfurls before them, vast and leafless. Their car becomes lost in the vastness of it, the road narrowing. Hannibal spots Will’s reflection in the side mirror, blue irises surrounded by red, as if they’re floating in a pool of blood. Hannibal knows he is the cause of this carnage. The bloodshot eyes are his poor prize, a winner only in pain.

“Would you forgive me?” Hannibal croaks out, his voice small. He isn’t sure when his confidence had fled, but he knows that it has fled somewhere out of the car, lying on the road behind them gasping for air. Perhaps it was when Hannibal saw the first tear flow from Will’s eyes that it left him, along with his pride.

“What is forgiveness to us, anymore?” Will is bitter, shaking. The aura of Will permeates Hannibal's skin, a thick burgundy beyond rage.

“It allows us to move on from the past,” Hannibal offers, reaching his hand out for Will. “It allows us to focus on the future.”

“I don’t need this quasi-psychiatry bullshit right now. No philosophy, no god. I want something real, drop the fucking metaphors.” Will snaps his head to Hannibal as he tears his hand away. “Pull up over to the side of the road. Just do it now. Now!”

Hannibal drives the car through a clearing between the trees, the forest which they drive through. He drives only far enough into the woods so that no one can spot them or the car. “If that’s what you’d like.”

Will runs out of the car, immediately, slamming the door behind him. He runs perhaps several yards away, panting. He hears screaming in his ears, like a kind of bleating before the slaughter. His mind spins as he feels a rush course through him. It’s similar to how it had been many weeks ago, Will running from their home in Canada. Hannibal chasing him, his heart chipping away with every step. Hannibal fears the worst as he watches Will run, holding his breath to see if Will would keep running. If he would stop.

 _It’s overwhelming. This is overwhelming._ Will begins to laugh hysterically, in nearly a cackle. He laughs until his throat hurts too much to go on, dry and tasting of blood. The sound of it echoes throughout the woods hauntingly. The breeze picks up, carrying his laughter far away. “You were taking us to Ohio!” Will cries out desperately, "Ohio!" His back crashes into a tree, the bark of it digging into the back of his hand. It draws blood, but Will doesn’t mind. Will is thankful for it, in fact. That he can feel anything else other than the swarm of empathy that bombards his thoughts, like a plague of locusts.

Will stops running. A blanket of relief wraps itself around Hannibal. He feels as if he has the upper hand, now. Hannibal takes a few steps towards Will, slow and deliberate. “My dear Will, you’ve known something for so long. What is it?”

“He knew the first victim. Frederika Bimmel. It was obvious, that he knew her.”

“Why was it obvious?”

“He took so much care to hide her. He was sloppier with the others, in a way.”

“That’s not what gave it away. Come on Will… I understand fibbing to Jack. But to me? Let me know what your eyes see.”

“She was a seamstress. And he’s making a suit.”

“Life is full of delicious little ironies,” Hannibal smiles widely, exposing his crooked teeth. “I wonder what else you’re piecing together in your mind, even now, Will.”

“Continuing this game... This isn’t over for you. I came to help you escape and yet you want to run to the one place where you will be captured again. I need to know why. Why this wild chase? I run to you, I run away from you, you come to me, you run away from me. How much longer will this go on? I'm tired. My bones hurt. My mind feels as if it's melting. I need answers. I need them, now, Hannibal. Please.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know the ending of this Buffalo Bill case? You’ve worked so hard on it.”

“They catch the bad guy, the end. Lovely story. It’s a distraction. From what really matters, Hannibal. This isn’t fun for you, anymore, either. It’s taken too long to play out. You keep going with it, but you’re bored, you’re bleeding, and you’re hurting. Your face reveals more now than it ever has—and I see a tired man, grasping for life but it's running away from your fingertips. I need to know why.”

“You already know why, Will.”

Will is shaking against the tree, his back digging deeper into it. He isn’t wearing a coat. His flannel shirt is thin. He manages to scratch up his back, knowing the blood would clot onto his flannel. He imagines Hannibal licking the wounds clean with his silver tongue and shudders at the thought. “An old friend once said, ‘can’t live with him, can’t live without him.’”

“Bedelia was a clever woman.”

“Not an oracle.”

Hannibal approaches Will, step by step, until his mouth is only an inch away from Will’s. “Even those who are the most wrong hit the truth occasionally.”

“You think I can’t live with you,” Will seethes.

“Can you?”

His arms shake as silence settles between them. “I don’t know. But this wasn't the way to find out, Hannibal.”

“Answer me!” Hannibal shouts, placing his hand around Will’s neck. “The details don't matter of how or why. I will not accept flippant little phrases. I won’t hear half promises. I won’t settle for good enough, Will. We settle this here, now.” The years of betrayal assault Hannibal, the images of Will capturing his heart only to throw it back in his face. Will once again taking it, only to stomp on it as if it were less than dirt. The betrayal which Will knew meant everything, because Will sees Hannibal. This is why Will hurts Hannibal, more than Hannibal could ever hurt Will. Will’s empathy is a razorsharp blade that cuts through Hannibal’s chest if Will should want to use it that way. Even now, Hannibal is weak to it. Vulnerable. He wonders how much Will can see of him. If he would use it even now. When Hannibal looks into Will's eyes, his hands wrapped around Will’s neck, he sees a hole so deep that if he were to step into it, he would lose himself. There is conflict there, beyond the rubble of memories, hidden passed the pain. Will stares back at Hannibal with the eyes of God, and Hannibal knows he is nothing compared to Will, placed in the palm of Will’s hand, cowering. He chooses to surrender, then, though his hands remain on Will’s neck. He accepts defeat. When Will lunges at him, Hannibal allows himself to cry.

_Will lunges forward, tackling Hannibal to the ground. He tugs his neck away from Hannibal’s hands with a groan, wrapping his hands around Hannibal’s neck instead. The Wendigo faces him now, black antlered and fierce. Its sharp teeth are stained in blood. It doesn’t move beneath him; it doesn’t try to fight back. Will feels power flow through him, violent and deadly. The Wendigo before had been a frightening nightmare, but now Will welcomes it. Will knows who holds power over whom._

_“Have you chosen reckoning, then?” it asks Will in an eerie whisper, low. “How would you kill me, now?”_

_“I would do it with my hands!” he spits back, tightening his grasp around Hannibal’s neck. “I would do it with my hands.”_

_“Then do it. Do it. It’s what you want.”_

_Come on. Come on. Come on._

_Will can almost see it, the snapped necks crooked against the muddy ground. He can see himself standing over the twin bodies of the Wendigo and Hannibal Lecter. He sees himself carving them up as a feast, how he would eat every piece of them. Every bite would taste of forgiveness, as Hannibal forgives. But every bite would also taste of heartbreak, knowing that he is now alone in this world. Will would feel like God, so apart from all else in this universe in dominance—an aching sense of loneliness surrounding him._

_The pendulum begins to swing, alternating between images of Hannibal on the ground gasping for air and the Wendigo begging, a suffering thing. He sees it shattering underneath him, breaking. The pendulum swings harder now, Hannibal twitching underneath Will’s hands. The pendulum falls from its place, its glow fading into a darkness. A numbness overtakes Will’s hands, Hannibal Lecter’s heart greeting him behind the veil._

_It’s a small, black thing._

_Barely beating._

_It pumps pitifully, each one more difficult than the last._

_But Will takes it in his hands as if it’s a wounded animal, and places it in his palm carefully. He caresses it, crying out. His body shakes as he sobs, uttering incoherent apologies._

Hannibal gasps for air as he watches Will disintegrate in front of him. He sits up to hold onto Will's arms as if Will is a piece of wood floating in the sea. His eyes are wide in fear, of what Will is feeling and of what he might be seeing. It’s a world which Hannibal has no access to, one which he is at the mercy of. If will would choose to kill him now, Hannibal would let him. But Hannibal hopes, that Will would change his mind now.

“Don’t you understand?” Will moans out, throaty and raw. “I can’t live without you. I run away to escape you, but I find you everywhere because I put you there. You lock yourself up, and I have an opportunity to be rid of you. And I come running to save you. How could you be so blind?”

Coughing, Hannibal musters the words, “I’ve chased you for many years in hope. But I no longer know if you’re a willing participant in this life with me. Is it the truth? Do you want this life with me?”

Will rolls over onto the ground next to Hannibal, exhausted. His joints ache, his heart heaves inside of his chest. “I would kill you now if it weren’t.”

Hannibal laughs then, turning his face towards Will. “If you had chosen otherwise, I would have been happy with our time together.”

“You’re happier that we get more time together. Don’t lie.”

“I take the chances I’m given, darling.” Hannibal takes Will’s hand into his own.

“We can’t go to Ohio,” Will asserts. “It would be too dangerous.”

“You’re ruining the fun.”

“You must choose now.”

“Is this an ultimatum?”

“One could call it that.”

Hannibal thinks for a moment, images of cities running through his head. “Buenos Aires is beautiful. There’s art, the opera. Fishing…”

Will sighs deeply, pressing his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’ll go wherever you are.”

Hannibal stands then, brushing himself off. Will stares up at him, watching the men move elegantly. With a doting sigh, Hannibal helps Will up from the ground. “You wanted answers.”

“I do.”

“The answer is I love you, Will. I would hope the answer is the same for—”

Will presses his lips against Hannibal’s, devouring them as a starving man. The screeching of his mind comes to a halt, in the woods with the taste of Hannibal Lecter in his mouth. “I love you,” Will tells him. “I choose you.”


	46. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice arrives in Belvadere, Ohio. Will and Hannibal plan their escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Flora Cash--They Own This Town
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter. I will update again, tomorrow! :)

Chapter 44

Clarice picks up the phone when it rings, Jack’s number on her screen. She inhales sharply, looking ahead on the nearly empty streets of Belvedere, Ohio. Frederika Bimmel had led her here, to this nearly desolate town. She dislikes the unease that boils up in her stomach, at how quiet the streets are.

“Hey, Jack. What do you need?”

“Lecter and Graham are nowhere to be found,”

“I told you I wanted off of that—I really can’t think about it right now.”

Clarice can hear Jack sighing into the phone followed by a pause. She knows Hannibal is still on his mind, that he won't admit he's lost him again. “I really called you to tell you that we’ve got our guy. I’m about to get on a plane, actually.”

“Lecter’s notes helped?” Clarice laughs awkwardly.

“He just lied about the name.”

Clarice recalls the name she’d been given, thinking on the letter of Louis Friend. Friend is an odd last name; it had even struck her then. “Iron sulfide,” she whispers into the phone. “Fool’s gold. He’s so—”

“I know,” Jack breathes into the phone on the other end of the line. “Johns Hopkins finally came up with a name for us. We fed him into Known Offenders. Jamie Gumb. Funnily enough, everything else Lecter told us was true. Slaughtered both his grandparents when he was twelve, nine years in juvenile psychiatric… He learned a useful trade there.”

“Sewing,” she finishes for him.

“He had two addresses under an alias, John Grant. I’m about to go to Chicago and then Calumet City, where the house is. SWAT’s going to LA.”

“I’m 400 miles from Chicago. I could be there soon.”

“No, Starling. I need you to piece together some loose ends on the Bimmel case. When we get him, I don’t want him losing any years in jail. Link him to her. You’re right where I need you.”

“Alright, Jack. Good luck, then. I’ll want to hear all about it when I’m back at Quantico. I’ll look into Bimmel.” Clarice stuffs the phone into her pocket with a sigh, Hannibal Lecter crawling up from the recesses of her mind. He whispers to her, in her left ear, that it’s not over yet.

There’s a tap on Clarice’s shoulder that startles her. She turns around, mouth agape. A teary-eyed young woman looks onto her, her lip quivering. “I’m sorry to have startled you… I just heard you say Bimmel and I shouldn’t be asking this, I’m sorry.”

Clarice sighs calmly, her eyes softening at the sight of heartbreak on the young woman’s face. “No, I’m here to investigate. Are you a relation?”  
“My name is Stacy and she was a friend, my best friend.” She bursts into tears then. “They said she was just rags, like somebody—”

“Did Frederica ever mention a man named Jamie Gumb or John Grant? Do you think she had a friend you didn’t know about?”

“If she had a boyfriend, she would have told me. Really, we shared everything. Even work. But she always sewed better than I ever could. Now Mrs. Lippman’s stuck with me doing alterations.”

Clarice furrows her eyebrows, “Where does Mrs. Lippman live. I’d like to talk to her.”

“I hadn’t heard from her in a while, you know. I’ll write down the address on a piece of paper for you, if you have a pad.”

****

Hannibal and Will stare out at the vast ocean before them, the salty air tumbling over their skin. They find themselves at water again, though not soaked in blood or hurting. It’s not lost on either of them that they’ve managed to make a circle, finding themselves with a boat and endless possibilities. Hannibal looks at Will fondly, smiling ever so slightly.

“Life presents the same challenges, again.”

“To see if we’d learned.”

“The universe doesn’t care about those things, I’ve come to believe,” Hannibal sighs leaning his head against Will’s.

“But you do.” Will laces his fingers into Hannibal’s.

“Luckily you haven’t unlearned to fix boat motors.”

“It’s easier to commandeer a broken boat.”

“Not so long ago you were shocked at me stealing a police car,” Hannibal laughs.

“It’s a side of you I’d never seen before, only imagined. I’ve gotten to know your sides better. I like them all.”

“Don’t lie,” Hannibal remarks as he steps on the boat. “Liars are known for losing their tongues.”

“You will go mad from the quiet if you make me shut up for good.”

Hannibal’s extends his hand out to Will, helping him into the boat. He stumbles, not by accident, but towards Hannibal, his lips meeting Hannibal’s in a tender kiss. Neither knows how long they have, though in the night they think their chances of being caught are far less. The moonlight shines down on them, and Will can recall the blackness of blood in its light, the beauty of it soaking them. Though it’s all he sees—that same beauty—he doesn’t regret choosing to see it.

When Will pulls apart from Hannibal, he sees a poignancy settling in his eyes. “You’d like to make a call.”

“Now isn’t the time.” Hannibal nuzzles into Will’s neck. “I’ll let the dust settle, first. Don’t you think?”

“Enough time for you to escape into the far reaches of their memories, only to pop up again.”

Hannibal straightens Will’s collar, his fingers feeling the rough fabric of it. It isn’t to his taste. “Am I becoming too predictable?”

“It’s quite nice, knowing what you’ll do. It gives me a second to breathe.”

In this moment with Will, their betrayals left behind on land, Hannibal allows his heart to swell. He lets the dust settle in his mind, the prospect of their future together replacing the previous unease. It’s strange to feel as if he’d finally won Will, once and for all, to be able to stand by his side knowing that Will would always occupy that place next to him.

“Can you imagine the articles Freddie Lounds will write about us?” Will ask with a laugh, moving to start the boat.

“I can’t wait to read the scandal.”

“You’re too concerned with how she presents us.”

“We could have dined on a slim and delicate pig, don’t you remember?”

“Shaking up the past. Perhaps another day, Hannibal. But today,” Will begins, turning on the boat’s motor. “We’re leaving. Argentina, then?”

“Argentina.”


	47. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachmaninoff--Prelude Op 32 no 10 in B minor

Chapter 45

The little pretty thing is screaming again, she thinks. A crooked smile spreads across her lips, and she takes the gun from her dresser, loading it carefully. Maybe it’s time, the skin might just be loose enough now. She holds the gun in her hand, her index finger tightening around the trigger. It’s practice. With a deep breath, she runs to the other room, her bare feet against the cold floor.

Her nose wrinkles, thinking to herself how much the rooms smells of urine. The little pretty thing is an animal, after all. Of course she’d be so disgusting. She peers down into the hole, carefully observing the girl. Just then, the smallest patch of white fluff enters her vision.

“Precious?” she calls out.

“Hey mister, I’ve got your fucking dog,” Catherine, the Senator’s daughter, shouts out devilishly. “I want a deal.”

“Put her in the bucket. Now!” she shouts out.

“Not a chance, mister.”

Shaking, she takes the gun from her back pocket. “Don’t call me mister!” she shouts, blood red filling her field of vision.

“What do you want me to call you.”

She cocks the gun. “You have three seconds to put Precious in the bucket.” The doorbell rings then, filling her ears maddeningly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“HELP!” Catherine wails.

Jame laughs, loud and hard, aiming unsteadily down into the hole. “Cute. No one’s going to help you.”  
The doorbell rings once more. With a sigh, she runs out, leaving Catherine behind a sobbing and hysterical mess.

Upstairs, she sees a mess of brown hair poking through the glass pane in the door. Smiling crudely, she thinks that perhaps this is another pretty little thing. She opens the door eagerly, an FBI badge pressed against the screen door greeting her. The woman clears her throat. The FBI badge reads CLARICE STARLING. Jame frowns. She’s no where near what she’s looking for, a little twiggy thing.

“Excuse me, but I really do need to talk to you,” Clarice begins. “This was Mrs. Lippman’s house. Did you know her?” her voice is deep, gravely. She tries to convey authority.

“Just briefly. What’s the problem, Officer?”

“I’m investigating the death of Frederika Bimmel. Who are you?”

“Jack Gordon, legally” she replies. “I prefer Jackie.”

The implication is lost on Clarice. “Mr. Gordon, did you know Frederika when she worked for Mrs. Lippman?”

“I’m really not sure.” She pauses, thinking. “Mrs. Lippman had a son, maybe he could help you? I have his card somewhere. Do you mind stepping inside while I look for it?”

“Not at all.” When Clarice steps through the threshold, she immediately notices the disarray of the home—almost as if Jack Gordon doesn’t truly live here. The furniture is covered in dust, the air is chilly as if the heat isn’t on. It strikes her as odd. She follows Jack carefully, hearing Hannibal’s voice in her head. _Don’t be naïve, Clarice._ He still has a hold on her, but she chooses to listen to the phantom of him in her mind. He’s not always wrong, is the problem.

“Mr. Gordon, did you take over this place after Mrs. Lippman died?”

“Yes. I bought the house from her about two years ago.”

“Did she leave any records here, maybe? I know it’s a stretch. Maybe a list of employees?”

She walks into the kitchen, Clarice following close behind. “Nothing at all, unfortunately. Just the furniture. Has the FBI learned something? The police here don’t know a thing about what’s happening. Do you have anything on the killer?”

“Not much. We think we might be getting close.”

A death head’s moth flutters out from Jame’s kimono, landing on her back. She pulls out a card from the drawer, smiling. “Ah, here it is!”

 _Where have we seen this before, Clarice?_ Will’s voice whispers to her. She wants to laugh now, her head erupting with a splitting ache. Of course, they would follow her here, even though they were no longer here. They would see her through the end of this, in whatever way they could—trapped in her mind.

 _What shall we do?_ Hannibal asks her.

Clarice bites her lower lip, taking the card from Jame. She knows it’s him, it must be. She thinks of Jack, in Calumet City looking for the wrong guy. “Good, thank you. Mr. Gordon, do you have a phone I can use?”

“Yes, I do,” she breathes smoothly. “I’ll show you.”

Clarice takes a few steps, following Jame. She takes her gun out of the holster, and points it at him, her hands perfectly still. “Freeze!” She takes a deep breath. “Mr. Gumb, you’re under arrest. Down on the floor. Spread your hands and legs.”

Jame runs through the alcove swiftly before Clarice has a chance to react, seemingly disappearing. To the left of the alcove, the door still swings. Clarice swings the door open with ferocity. She pauses for a moment, a woman’s scream echoing in the stairwell. Without hesitation, she rushes down the stairs and finds herself in a maze, almost impossible to navigate.

She closes her eyes for a second, listening for the next scream. This time it is accompanied by the high-pitched barking of a dog. With a single step, the lights are shut off and Clarice finds herself in complete darkness. She feels for the wall, putting her back to it, and stalks forward.

_You don’t need to see._ Will tells her. She can feel the ghost of his hand on her shoulder. _A good hunter only needs to listen_

She can almost smell the scent of Hannibal’s cologne in the air. _Is it enough to save the Senator’s daughter?_ Hannibal asks her, his voice soft but cruel.

There are too many doors, all of them closed. Clarice knows he could be behind any one of the doors. She looks left and right, trying to find something anything she could see. Another scream guides her left through the maze, where she finds the faintest light. There’s a strange opening, blocked by a piece of wood. She approaches the chamber with caution.

Behind her, Jame Gumb observes quietly in infrared. Fear looks better in this color, she thinks. She’s clever, she must give her that—for making it this far. She wonders if she could use the skin regardless, perhaps patches. She’d never considered brown hair before, but it could make a fine alternative to the blonde she currently has.

“Catherine?” Clarice calls out, pushing the flimsy wood away. Her eyes fill with horror at the sight, the large pit at her feet. Inside, Catherine is disheveled and soiled. A dog, a small poodle, trembles in her arms. “Hold on, hold on. You’re safe. I need to get something to get you out of here.”

“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” Catherine begins to repeat, shrieking. “He has a fucking gun. Don’t go, please don’t go.” Catherine’s back crashes against the rough wall of the hole, and she slides down it, her legs giving out in defeat.

Clarice runs back, an onslaught of moths attacking her face. She can barely breathe through the flapping of their wings against her mouth. She spits them away, swearing to herself. _Careful, now_. Hannibal tells her. _Have you ever thought about it? You’ve been equipped for so long._

“What do you mean?” Clarice cries out.

_The gun._ Will answers, pushing her forward.

Before she can react, she finds Jame Gumb standing in front of her, illuminated by the light of the chamber. The suit she’s been constructing hangs off of her, a gun in her hand. Half completed and terrifying, the suit fits over Jame as some terrible jigsaw mismatch of human skin. Jame’s arms are unsteady as she aims, taking only a moment to find the perfect shot.

_Do it_. Hannibal commands her, and she pulls the trigger of her gun, once, twice, three times, she loses count. Jame Gumb topples over onto the ground, the gun clicking—empty—the ghosts of Hannibal and Will behind her.

She begins to hyperventilate, her muscles convulsing in shock. She falls backwards onto the ground, her head hitting the wall. Will and Hannibal stand over her, smiling. _Well done._ Hannibal tells her, Will putting a hand on his shoulder. _How does it feel?_ Will asks her.

“Wonderful,” she chokes out, tears spilling from her eyes. And it does feel wonderful, a thrill spreading throughout her body as a kind of euphoria. She places the gun on her chest, patting it carefully. Slowly, she drifts away, the scent of musk in the air taking her into the darkness.

****

Clarice wakes up to bright lights, Jack Crawford by her side. “Look who’s waking up,” he laughs, placing his hand over hers. A sense of relief flows over Jack when he sees her brown eyes staring back at him, alive and blinking. He’d never thought before, how much she’d grown on him.

She smiles at him weakly, her heart thumping in her chest. It’s then that she realizes, in the mess of the past months, Jack Crawford had grown attached to her—perhaps too attached. All she can hear is Hannibal’s voice, egging her on. _Good, good…_

She lets Jack keep his hand over hers, smiling weakly. “Is he?”

“Shot dead,” Jack confirms, watching her carefully. “We got there three hours after you called me. Catherine is with her mother.”

“Good. That’s good.” She looks down at the white blankets which cover her. She feels odd her, as if she doesn’t belong. She wants to run, the whiteness of the room overwhelming her. Would they drag her, as they had dragged Will, to the mental institution? How many shots were too many? _Not enough_ , Will’s voice enters her mind.

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” he tells her.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a while,” Clarice tells him, the words shocking to even herself. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Jack nods, standing up with a sigh. “I expect you back in my office as soon as you’re able to. Good work, Starling.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

Jack leaves, leaving Clarice in silence. The sound of gunshots echoes in her ears, a memory she wishes she could erase. Minutes after Jack leaves, a nurse comes through the door, smiling at her. Hannibal and Will chatter in her head, over the gunshots, their voices growing louder.

“We have a call for you. Can I send it through?”

Clarice nods, “Please.”

She picks up the telephone beside her, “Hello?”

“Well, Clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming..?” Hannibal’s voice greets her on the other end of the line. Without a response, Hannibal continues. “Don’t bother with a trace, I won’t be on long enough.”

And the lambs had stopped screaming, Hannibal and Will replacing them. She would prefer the bleating, she thinks. Clarice grips the phone tightly. “Where are you, Dr. Lecter?”

“Where I have a view, Clarice. Your lambs are still for now, Clarice, but not forever… you’ll have to earn it again and again, this blessed silence. Because it’s the plight that drives you, and the plight will never end.”

“Dr. Lecter—”

“I have no plans to call on you, Clarice, the world being more interesting with you in it. Be sure you extend me the same courtesy.”

Clarice wants to smash the phone in her hands. “You know I can’t make that promise.”

“Goodbye, Clarice,” Hannibal finishes, the line going dead.

****

Will stands next to Hannibal who ends the phone call, looking up at him with a smile. “I’m sorry,” Hannibal tells him.

“Will you really leave her alone?” Will questions, sitting next to Hannibal at the piano.

He plays a few notes in the right hand, practicing. The melody is weak, breathy. It grows stronger as Will continues on. Hannibal following the music as Will plays.

“You know the answer to that.”

“You had hoped it would end differently,” Will notes, placing both hands on the keys.

“You’re learning quickly,” Hannibal responds, turning the page.

Will raises his eyebrow. “You criticize me for avoiding your questions.”

“You like hearing you’re right,” Hannibal offers. “Yes, I’d hoped it would end differently. Though I don’t regret the choices I’ve made.”

“You’re growing soft.” Will hits a wrong note, grunting in dissatisfaction.

“You’ll be the death of me, truly.”

Hannibal places his hands on the piano, playing over the passage Will had just practiced. The sound is firmer, more melodic. “Like this,” he instructs. “With feeling.” Bach’s Goldberg Variations Aria plays out, time growing still between them. They drift away with the melody, together.


	48. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later, Will and Hannibal are in Buenos Aires but the past catches up to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puccini: Nessun Dorma from the opera Turnadot 
> 
> One more chapter to go and an epilogue! This is almost done. Thank you to all who are still following this story.

3 years later…

Will gazes at Hannibal as the older man sleeps, lightly snoring. Stubble covers his face, waiting to be shaven in the morning. Their lives are settled now, seemingly normal on the surface. Only on the inside, deep inside of them, do their oddities roam around free. It’s a precaution they must take, in order to avoid suspicion. On a morning like this, it’s easy to believe that the past was a nightmare, vivid and scarring, one that neither could quite forget but could ignore for a time. Will hums in contentment, tracing the outline of Hannibal’s lip with his index finger. The older man flinches, scrunching his lips. He has more wrinkles on his face now, his hair grey. Hannibal had stopped coloring it, no longer feeling the same vanity as before; being with Will had allowed a few of his habits to fall by the wayside. Hannibal thinks the grey fits him, anyway—it shows his intelligence, his experience in life. Will admits he finds this look on Hannibal almost irresistible.

Three years had passed for them in Buenos Aires, Hannibal becoming a composer and private teacher of the piano and harpsichord. He finds himself in the artistic society, mingling among those with who he could chat all day about obscure and long forgotten poets, artists, and musicians. And though Will cannot relate, nor does he wish to, Will is happy that Hannibal has found his place in society here. _A happy cannibal, a happy murder husband—he supposes._ Will laughs internally at the thought. He licks his lips, watching Hannibal stir.

Will, on the other hand, takes to working on ships. It’s always temporary work, allowing him to take time off to spend with Hannibal whenever he wishes. His gold band shines in the sunlight peaking through the curtains, and Will smiles at it. Though never officially married, he and Hannibal like to pretend. Hannibal had started wearing his first, without word and without asking. It was only one morning that Hannibal had slipped the ring on Will’s finger, while Will was still fast asleep. He had sat up in bed, waiting for Will to wake up. It took Will three days to notice the ring on his finger, when he’d gone to repair a boat motor and found some odd sensation on his hand, his screwdriver clanking against something. He had rushed home after work and found Hannibal in the kitchen, slicing onions, looking up at Will with wet eyes.

_“You’re an idiot,” Will tells him._

_“So are those in love.”_

_“You could have said something. You know I’d never notice.”_

_“It was fun seeing how long it would take,” Hannibal returns to his onion, slicing it as if nothing had occurred. Will hugs Hannibal from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck._

“There’s sirens outside of the house, growing closer,” Will whispers to Hannibal, wondering if the words would make him wake up. It is a fear that Will hasn’t let go, that one day the stage they’d built would crumble, the curtain would fall, and they would no longer be able to play in their theater. They would walk out handcuffed, masks left behind, their identities on display for the world to see. How society would gasp, how their ‘friends’ would retch.

“That’s a rude way to wake me up,” Hannibal groans, pulling Will into his chest. Will strokes his chest lightly, thick hair beneath his fingertips.

“You like being kept on your toes.”

****

Hannibal is unusually cheerful this dinner, smiling at Will between bites. Truth be told, Hannibal had outdone himself. Will had become accustomed to lavish and decadent dinners, a medley of flavors dancing on his tongue with each meal. But this dinner, is different from those of the past few years. When he looks into his lover’s eyes, he knows, in the pit of his stomach, that the difference is not in ingredients or effort. The meat is not the same; the dish is peppered with fear.

“Who was it?” Will asks, sighing. Disappointment fills his stomach. Their agreement has shattered, a torn verbal contract consumed with every swallow of the dish. Will wonders if Hannibal considers this betrayal, or falling victim to his urges?

“The butcher,” Hannibal replies calmly, setting his utensils on the table. He places his hands on his lap, ready for Will’s reaction.

“For selling you subpar meat while talking up the quality, eh?” Will seethes, patting his mouth with a napkin and throwing it into the dish. He stands from the table, leaving Hannibal alone with his thoughts.

“We’ve spent enough time here.”

“For you to grow comfortable!” Will’s footsteps are louder than they should be, the size of their home amplifying them.

Hannibal doesn’t follow, returning to his dish. He would settle this later, once Will has calmed down. Time together has taught him how to handle their differences without escalation, a skill they both needed in order to survive with each other. Otherwise, they would live with constant friction, never ending conflict. Despite his own heartbreak at Will’s reaction, Hannibal understands that Will disapproves not because of morality but because of possibilities and probabilities neither of them have control over.

Hannibal finds Will later, sitting at the piano, playing quietly. It’s a jazz song, one he hasn’t heard before. He knows it’s what Will prefers to play, though never in front of Hannibal. It’s his private hobby, his form of expression harkening back to his Louisiana roots. He smiles softly, clearing his throat.

“The only constant is life is unpredictability,” Hannibal begins.

“Don’t you believe that our decisions guide the course life takes?” Will counters, lifting his hands from the keys. He twists around in the piano bench so as the face Hannibal. “Don’t you believe in taking life by the balls and grasping them firmly?”

“I cannot continue to live as we have here. It’s time. I’ve been patient.”

“So you choose hobby over safety?”

“I choose sanity over insanity.”

“What we do is not sane.”

“It is for us.” Hannibal takes a seat next to Will, taking his hand into his own. “It’s how we make sense of the world. Would you prefer it otherwise? You know who I am, Will.”

Will huffs, slumping over and clasping his hands. “I’ve tried that life, and you know it always leads back to you. I consider what you did reckless. That’s the issue.”

“You know I am not a reckless man.”

“But you can be impulsive.”

“Perhaps it’s time we leave Buenos Aires.”

Will shuts his eyes in frustration, squeezing them shut tightly. “You enjoy the life we’ve built here, the connections you’ve gained.”

“And just as all things, it must come to an end. You can pick where we go next, if you’d like.”

“You’re hoping we don’t, not yet,” Will finally states, once again leaving Hannibal alone.

Hannibal frowns, turning to the piano, his fingers unsteady at the keys. Normally so filled with inspiration, Hannibal finds himself musically infertile, creatively unproductive. The melody doesn’t form in his head; instead his fingers produce incomplete melodies and clumsy, simplistic harmonies. It pains him, to feel so lacking. He knows it’s rooted in Will’s displeasure, reflected in his own abilities. 

****

Jack and Clarice step off of a plane, the humid air of Buenos Aires hitting them immediately. They walk hand in hand on the tarmac, Jack looking at Clarice with anticipation, excitement. She knows from the look on his face that he feels the air itself is soaked in Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. A golf cart comes to pick them up, and they sit in it, the ride rocky.

“What do you think?” Jack asks her, putting his arm around her shoulder.

In the beginning, she never thought that Jack would be an intimate man. She’s come to learn over time that he’s physical, how he loves closeness. She settles in her spot, placing her head on his shoulder. “Only time will tell. The leads are shaky.”

“Many of them point here.”

“You found them from less than reputable sources. Even Tattle Crime—”

“It’s our only shot. I used my retirement fund for three months for this trip,” Jack responds, his voice firm.

“I know, I know. We can hope.”

As Clarice stares out at the vast greyness of the airport, she finds herself feeling unsettled. If they are here, really here, she wouldn’t want to see them. In truth, she hopes Jack’s obsession is fruitless. They never talk about Will and Hannibal, mostly for her avoidance of the topic. If she lets her mind wander, she fears what it will bring up from the past. Would the ghosts of Will and Hannibal greet her again as they had that day she shot Buffalo Bill dead? If she were to see them once more in the flesh, would she find herself itching to cross the line and join them? Her heart lurches within her chest, thinking of Jack and his hopes.

****

Clarice checks her reflection in the mirror, a red ballgown on a figure that looks so distinctly unlike her. It flatters her pale skin, nevertheless. Her odd appearance would work in her favor, make her less recognizable, she would hope.

She steps out of the ladies’ restroom, Jack waiting for her on the other side. He steps forward in a tux, offering his arm to her. “You truly look beautiful tonight,” he compliments her, pressing a kiss on the back of her hand. “I’m lucky to have you on my arm.”

“You’ll make me blush, and I’ll look like a clown,” she responds, a small smile threatening to take over her lips. “The opera should begin any moment, now.”

They take their seats in the gallery, waiting for the opera to begin. The lights dim slowly, followed by strings singing out. Clarice looks to her left and right, wondering if she would find familiar faces in the crowd. From this height, it’s difficult to spot anyone—all of the faces look the same, like strangers. She sighs, leaning back.

“It’s a bust, Jack,” she grumbles.

The opera is beautiful, regardless. The music captures Clarice, taking her by her heart strings. She finds herself in the Princess Turnadot, conflicted by her suitor. Disgusted and attracted, opposed and in longing for. She cries as the Princess struggles, salty tears falling onto her lips. She cries not for the music nor the beauty of the actors and dancers; she cries for herself, knowing that Jack must be right. The universe would bring them here, to the one place she would never want to find herself—in Hannibal Lecter’s backyard.

“Why are you crying?” Jack whispers to her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she responds, wiping away the tears. She’d never thought that a southern girl would find herself reflected in a piece such as this, written so long ago and set in a place foreign to her.

The opera comes to an end, Turnadot choosing her prince who she had reviled. She wonders if this is what Will Graham had felt when coming to know Hannibal Lecter, if he himself had been Turnadot at a time. Will had chosen Hannibal, Clarice knows this. She tells herself, almost as a desperate plea, that she would not be the same.

****

Clarice and Jack walk out of the opera, Jack holding onto her hand. Her tears are dried now, her makeup still intact. Her mind, her heart, are otherwise. Holding Jack’s hand now, after listening to the opera, feels odd. Their tangled mess of fingers is awkward, unfitting. She thinks she would rather be… She doesn’t dare admit it. They would come here another night, visit the museums—she knows that is where they will find them, if they are in this city.

In front of her, through the crowd, is a mess of brown curls peppered with grey. Her heart beats harder inside of her chest, and she rushes forward, ripping her hand out of Jack’s. She stumbles out of her heels, leaving them behind her as she runs towards the curls. A familiar profile enters her vision, saying something to the man next to him.

They both turn, their faces unmistakable though slightly older. She stops, taking a deep breath. She knows Jack is behind her, but facing them now, like this, the crowd around them disappears. She feels alone, vulnerable.

The stalk closer to her, their footsteps agonizingly slow. The distance between them seems closer than it is, a terrified ache spreading throughout Clarice’s body. Jack comes to her side, placing his hand on her hip. It’s to protect her, she thinks, in his own way.

“What a coincidence,” Hannibal greets. “Clarice, Jack, it’s lovely to see you here.”

Will looks away from them, inspecting the details of their surroundings, the delicate white columns beside them and the enormous chandeliers overhead. “The opera was wonderful,” Will says, making small talk.

“You know why we’re here,” Jack asserts. “The time has come.”

“Not yet, Jack. A place so public, it’s not wise.” Hannibal removes a piece of paper and pen from his jacket pocket and scrawls down information. He smiles, handing it to Clarice who takes it out of his hand slowly, their eyes meeting. “Tomorrow, at this location. We won’t hide. We don’t have reason to. I only ask that you don’t bring the police brigade. We settle this as friends.”

“Friends is too kind a term,” Clarice spits back.

“With decency, then,” Will counters, looking at Clarice and Jack now. He smiles wickedly, as if they already have the upper hand though their meeting is unexpected.

“Tomorrow, then,” Jack replies with a curt nod, dragging Clarice away.

“What are you doing?” she asks, handing him the paper.

“We can only win by playing their game.”

They turn to watch Will and Hannibal leave the opera house hand in hand. They watch for some time until Will and Hannibal become obscured in the distance, though the presence lingers in the opera house as unwanted, grueling poltergeists. Already, Clarice feels their influence building in her veins. She should tell Jack to leave her, to run. She cannot find the words.

Tomorrow, then, it would be… 


	49. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mozart -- Lacrimosa

Will lies in bed next to Hannibal, but he is unable to sleep. He spins the thin gold band around his finger, staring up at the ceiling, at its innumerable imaginary stars. He runs through scenarios in his head, where Jack calls in the FBI, where the Argentinian militia is at his side to capture them. They seem appropriate, but a nagging feeling in his stomach lets him know these feelings aren’t true. A deep wrongness fills them. Jack wouldn’t settle for some impersonal confrontation, not after years of torture—this is too personal for Jack, now. He would come with Clarice, standing at the steps of the Cathedral Metropolitana, armed and with blood curdling in his eyes.

He lets out a shuttered breath, sitting up from the bed, turning his gaze to Hannibal who shifts at the movement in the bed. Would he lose him? Will can’t help but wonder, if the years of turmoil would leave him with less time together with Hannibal than without him. It seems unfitting, that they shouldn’t have an eternity in each other’s hands, but only mere years. It isn’t enough for Will. He feels greedy now, that no one else should lay a hand on Hannibal, to put a scratch upon his face, to take away his life. Those things aren’t theirs to claim. It would only be for Will to do when the time comes decades from now, when their bones are old and their bodies crack with humanity too weak, too fragile to continue. No one would take Hannibal away from him before their time. Will knows, if the fight is too difficult, if Jack is smart and has learned from the past, he would do away with Hannibal and leave Will. But the earth would become empty, the air desolate and dry in his lungs, and music would lose its magic, without Hannibal—he knows. Their would be no lust for life, for blood that is life. He would waste away, a husk.

He places a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, rubbing circles into it softly. Hannibal wakes at the sensation, turning around to face Will with a lopsided smile so strange on his face, the goofiness of it. Will feels like it’s a treasure, to be able to see him like this.

“Your worry saturates the room.”

“How can you tell?” Will responds in a whisper, gulping.

“It smells like the air after rainfall,” Hannibal mumbles, taking Will’s hand to his lips. “Sweet and musky. Pitter patter droplets of despair. Are you afraid of Uncle Jack?”

“I don’t fear my death, but your own. Isn’t it strange that I shouldn’t care about myself?”

“It won’t happen. We could escape, now, if you’d prefer.” Hannibal tugs at Will’s arm, begging for him to lie back down, to be next to him. “Pretend is if no reckoning was promised. Leave Jack instead with anguish. Like years ago, when we had promised we would run away.”

Will doesn’t oblige, instead taking his hand away from Hannibal. “It’s not what you want. You feel that the time has come, to make good on promises. You’ve already let too many go, but this one—you can’t.”

“I’ve changed in your arms. I’ve learned to let things go if I must for you.” Hannibal once again tugs at Will’s arm, pleading this time with his eyes. “Please.”

Will is no fool, to not notice the faintest fear in Hannibal’s voice, the quickening beat of his heart. Hannibal’s afraid of losing, not himself, but Will. Will finds it comedic, almost, that they should worry only for each other and never themselves. He leans over, pressing a kiss onto Hannibal’s lips, deep and loving.

“We’ll finish this, the way you need to,” Will whispers. “And then we’ll go.” He feels the curl of Hannibal’s smile under his lips as he says the words.

****

They arrive in the nighttime, the sky pitch black with the new moon. Will looks to Hannibal and then to the massive structure in front of him, glowing ivory in the yellow light that illuminates the street. Hannibal, in a moment of weakness, takes Will’s hand in his own. He strokes the ring on Will’s finger absentmindedly as they approach the doors, knowing they would be unlocked. Jack and Clarice must be waiting inside—and would they be kneeling on the cool, checkered floor with a prayer on their lips, a last call to God for luck, for mercy, or perhaps to devil for vengeance?

Will and Hannibal grip the door handle together, their hands touching, as they pull open the door, the scent of incense still lingering in the air hitting their nostrils. The lights are off, candles lit instead. Hannibal smiles to himself, the ominous breath of the building settling in his bones, breathing the rumble of battle into his soul. This could be no less, than the final combat of a years long war. Will opens his mouth to speak, but the sound of footsteps in the distance cut him off, Hannibal stepping forward to echo them.

“Hiding in the shadows, Jack?” Hannibal calls out, his hands empty and at his sides.

Will stands behind, observing, waiting. He isn’t equipped with Hannibal’s sense of smell, but he knows from the arch of Hannibal’s back, the certainty of his footsteps, that the scent of Jack and Clarice is on the air, detectable beyond the incense. He smirks to himself, watching closely as Hannibal approaches the alter.

The light flickers on, Hannibal standing bathed in it in the center of the church. He looks up at the domed ceiling, breathing in. He quickly turns to his left, deflecting a jab as Jack yelps out, his bones crackling. Jack throws another punch again, his fist landing onto the softness of Hannibal’s belly, sending Hannibal backwards into the wooden seating.

Jack feels arms wind themselves around his chest, legs around his hips, tipping him over backwards. On the floor, he watches as Will huffs above him, his face like that of a rabid dog’s. He manages a chuckle as he watches Clarice step behind him, placing a knife to his neck.

“And here I’d thought we’d make this personal,” Will spits, leaning his head backwards.

Hannibal appears at Clarice’s side, pinching the sides of her neck, momentarily disabling her. The knife clatters on the ground; Jack lunges for it with ferocity, Hannibal stepping on his hand as he grips the knife.

“We’re here to finish this,” Jack chokes out, “Once and for all.”

“Once and for all,” Will echoes, nodding at Hannibal.

Neither of them expects for Clarice to recover so quickly, but she stands on wobbly legs, charging forward towards Hannibal. He’s much larger than her, almost by a head, but she by sheer determination manages to tackle him onto the ground, shrieking in a battle cry to fuel her strength.

Jack, grasping the knife, flies forwards towards Will, stabbing it into his shoulder. The whites of his eyes roll back at the pain as he staggers backwards, pulling the knife out, coated in thick blood. He licks it off, staring Jack in the eyes. He would let him see that he is too far gone—this is who he is now, who he has been all along.

Will throws the knife, barely missing the pulsating vein on Jack’s neck. It flies through the air, faster than anyone can see, through aisles of seating, landing in Clarice’s shoulder—an act of reciprocity. Every wound on him, would become a wound on her. She yowls as the knife pierces her skin, charging on as she pounds her fist into Hannibal, harder with each strike, drawing blood from his mouth.

He could easily flip her over, but he allows her this vengeance, to watch the pain contort his face. He would let her feel the vicious beast build up within her, a bloodthirsty thing she cannot hold back. Jack and Will, panting, watch as she unleashes her fury onto Hannibal. She smells justice on the air, the pleased look on Hannibal’s face goading her on. Tears stream down her face at the realization—this is what he wants, for her to become unhinged.

“Why?” she moans, her arms becoming weaker, the pain in her shoulder finally spreading throughout her back.

“I am giving you your retribution. Isn’t that what you want, Clarice?” His smiles at her with red stained teeth, crooked and horrid.

She finds the reflection of Satan on his face, horned on horrible, with skin pitch black and eyes even darker, bottomless. She straddles him, leaning back, crying. “How could you know what I want?”  
“This is who you have always been,” Hannibal breathes, the words he had told to so many before, of honey-coated and sweet becoming, the fever dream of realization of ones true self. It sticks to her skin, he can almost feel it on his fingertips, as it pours out of her, through every pore, tiny telling molecules of her sweat. “This is who you are, Clarice.”

“No,” she bites back, furious, reaching for her shoulder, pulling out the knife. “This is what you do. You corrupt, defile.”

“When you came, with the story of a lost girl without a brother, however fallacious it was, there was a truth in it, wasn’t there? Hidden between the lines, unspoken, but louder than the spoken words, certainly so…”

“You’re deranged.”

“When you sat in a bed as Mischa, what did you find?”

She swipes the knife across his cheek, splitting it open, watching the thick crimson liquid drip from the cut and onto the church floor. “Nothing,” she asserts, standing up.

Behind them, there’s a crack as Will’s body hits the seats, their wood splintering at the impact. “Hannibal,” Will grunts, low, feral almost as he reaches out to him, far away, bones aching from the abuse.

Hannibal pushes Clarice aside as he lunges forward towards Jack. This fight with him would need to end; four is too large a crowd. Clarice looks onto Will, in his moment of weakness, and she approaches him, a lioness with found and easy prey.

This is how she would hurt Hannibal. How she would instill into him a pain that would ravage him for an eternity. His death would never be enough for her—he would be too nonchalant in it, too accepting of his own loss of life beyond the grave. He would haunt her, cackling at her failures. No, this was no way to shatter Hannibal Lecter’s heart.

She stands above Will, reaching into her pocket for the weapon she had saved for absolute necessity. She holds the gun steady in her hands pointing at him. He looks back at her, tears on the edge of his eyes, a plea almost. _Don’t leave Hannibal without me_ , they tell her. She wants to laugh.

“Clarice!” Jack shouts, ripping her attention away from Will.

She finds Jack with Hannibal in a strong hold, Hannibal on his knees, staring at them, at Will, at the gun, never mind the gun above Hannibal’s head. “We’ll shoot together,” Jack tells her. “One bang to take out the both of them.”

“This isn’t what you want, Clarice,” Hannibal utters, cold and resounding through the room. “Not both.”

“No, Hannibal,” Will shouts. “After all this time?”

“She wants me alive. Can’t you see, Will? What image haunts you behind those eyes. You know I see it, too.”

“Clarice, on the count of three. One,” Jack begins.

“If we both go out,” Hannibal continues on.

“Two.”

“You will have nothing.”

“Clarice!”  
“Kill him,” Hannibal commands, looking up at Jack.

Clarice, possessed, shots Jack, once, twice, three times, for each count. She watches as he topples over, the shock spreading across his face as he realizes she had never wanted him, she had never loved him, in the last few moments of his life. Hannibal kneels on the ground, trembling with satisfaction as he watches Clarice breathing jagged breathes, nearly hyperventilating as a thrill spreads through her veins.

“You don’t get to have me too, Hannibal,” she tells him, placing the gun in her mouth with a sob, pulling the trigger smoothly and without second thought.

Hannibal stumbles over to Will, pausing to look over Clarice’s corpse as her blood pools onto the cathedral floor. He picks Will up in his arms, as if he’s a fragile thing, carrying him bridal style, forcing each step, through the church.

“The past is laid to rest,” Will coughs, looking up at Hannibal before closing his eyes, exhaustion taking over his body.

He walks into the blackness of the night, through empty streets, with Will in his arms. Both soaked in blood, they blend in with the darkness, becoming one with it. It’s a comfort to them, a home. It’s this alone that causes Hannibal’s arms to never tire, strengthened by this thought, of a universal alignment. He smiles to himself, a devil walking among humans, possessing the world as his own. This is what happiness must feel like, he thinks, pushing through the pain of lost friends and lost enemies.


	50. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: Lana Del Rey--Young and Beautiful

Epilogue

Strangely enough, life settles in the months afterwards. Will’s broken bones heal with ease, and Hannibal’s sharp edges soften with time. Thinking back on the time before this sounds like a story told by a narrator in their heads, rather than their own lives. They don’t dare to think their life now could be a dream out of the fear that it would make it so.

The sandy shores of Cuba are constantly bustling, but Will and Hannibal manage to find a quiet corner where they can live in peace, without the chatter of neighbors to disturb them or ears to hear how they shriek, how the call to each other in the night. Their home is smaller and less grand than the one in Argentina, but they adore it all the same. Hannibal becomes content with less of the physical objects he once hoarded around him, the ones which kept him company when he hadn’t had true companionship. He keeps a library, a piano and a harpsichord, places where he can let his mind wander and places that he can share. His kitchen is, of course, well stocked and larger than it needs to be. But the remainder of the home is small, save for the bedroom, which is difficult to leave in the mornings for the pair. Above all, Hannibal is happy to have Will. He could do without all else.

Their white havanese pooch yips in her sleep, dreaming of food no doubt. Hannibal hums to himself, adjusting his reading glasses. The silence gets to him, forcing him to set down the novel in his lap, looking at Will instead. Will sits at the window nook, staring out at the seafoam ocean, the moon bright and big on the horizon.

“What’s captured you so, Will?” Hannibal wonders, chuckling to himself.

“I remember a moon like this, years ago. It carried blood then, made the night black with it.” He turns away from the window, smiling at Hannibal. The years had transformed him from frumpy professor to a refined man, no curls out of place, clothing always clinging flatteringly on his lithe frame. Just as he influences Hannibal, Hannibal influences him. In his red sweater and stripped pajama pants, he looks breathtaking.

“Are you lost in nostalgia?”

Will shakes his head, “I would never go back. I would leave that moment forever untouched, unchanged. It has led us to today.”

“And the present is comfortable, wonderful even… Do you think of the past often?”

“No,” Will laughs, standing from his place by the window and walking towards Hannibal who pulls Will into his lap, wrapping his arms around him. “Do you?”

“The skeletons seem to have settled in their closet.”

“You’ve let me see them all. Now they can go back.”

Hannibal pulls Will’s head closer to his, kissing his softly. “Could I show you something?” he whispers.

“In the bedroom?”

“Later, impatient one. In my study.”

“You’ve been hiding something from me,” Will teases him. “Go ahead.”

Hannibal takes Will into his study, pulling a tablet out of the desk drawer and powering it on. He clicks several times, watching Will through the corner of his eye, how his fingers twitch in anticipation. He adores the excitement within him, never dying. It keeps him enthusiastic for life, watching Will.

“There it is,” Hannibal exclaims happily, passing the tablet over to Will.

_The whispers haven’t stopped, the rumors aren’t dead yet, not unlike their inciters. We can only presume what romantic escapade the Murder Husbands must have had in Buenos Aires. The bodies of Jack Crawford and Clarice Starling were found on one Sunday morning before service at the Cathedral Metropolitana. While the scene lacked the typical brutalization attributed to the Chesapeake Ripper, none other than Hannibal “the Cannibal” Lecter, the motives for Crawford and Starling’s visit are suspect. Be no fool, despite the scandalous romance which shook Starling’s career, their trip was no romantic getaway. We at Tattle Crime believe that they had successfully tracked down the Murder Husbands seeking justice, or perhaps even revenge._

_While their whereabouts are unknown, do not be mistaken—Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are very much alive, perhaps hosting a dinner party as we speak. What monstrous dishes must be on their table, we cannot imagine. Or perhaps they are busy having desert instead... With so many victims, we wonder if they would eat the world whole before ending each other? Or perhaps their capture will save the rest of us from becoming meals for the depraved._

“Freddie hasn’t lost her fangs,” Will scoffs, passing the tablet back to Hannibal. “Is that what’s tickled you? An article?”

“Only whet my appetite for long pig,” Hannibal grins, licking his lips.

“She has proven one thing, if anything,” Will notes, sitting on the desk, tugging at the lapels of Hannibal’s suit jacket and bringing him in closer. “We are everlasting.”

“We will have each other forever,” Hannibal groans, closing the distance between them.

It is the only way they could be, only each other’s to torment with love and manipulations. It is what they want, to suffer at each other’s hands, the same hands that could cause so much pleasure. To consume one another in every way possible without ripping the meat off the other’s bones. This is how their years go on, not calmly, but every moment with passion, until the end where in old age Will brings Hannibal to the roiling Atlantic once more, where their life together had begun anew. Only this time their aged and aching bones would sink to the bottom of the sea, cradled in each other’s arms, becoming one with the perpetual motion of it, their particles fused together for the rest of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the end. Thank you to everyone who's stuck around to read it! I am so grateful to all of you. :)


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